


The Horse and his Doctor

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/F, Gen, Horselock, Horses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, London, M/M, Magical Realism, Vet John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 129,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Invalided after a run in with a poacher in Siberia, veterinary surgeon John Watson finds it difficult to acclimatise to the mundanity of London life. Things change when a friend invites him along to a local animal shelter and he meets their latest acquisition, a trouble-making Frisian with the strangest eyes and even stranger quirks John has ever encountered in a horse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The animal doctor

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came to me while illustrating a children's book featuring a unicorn, and refused to go away. It stands independent of my other Sherlock fanfics.

“They have five ponies, although Lady is the best, of course. I look after her, you see. She’s white, and has a fluffy mane, and she likes carrots. But the other horses are brilliant, too, especially Luke. He’s huge and has these funny furry hooves.”

“It’s called ‘feather’, Annie,” Tilda, Mike Stamford’s eight year old daughter corrects her little sister, six year old Annie.

From the passenger seat, John casts a glance over his shoulder at the two girls sitting on the rear bench, already equipped with wellingtons and thick jumpers. They have a bag of carrots and hard bread crusts between them. Both are literally brimming with excitement, their eagerness to visit their beloved animals barely contained by their child-seats and safety belts. Both girls are as round-faced, jovial and easy-going as their parents, particularly their father Mike, an old friend of John’s from their university days.

A few weeks ago, he accidentally ran into him in Russell Square, shortly after John’s return to London. They had coffee on a park bench in the early spring sun and started to reminisce about the past, and when John admitted that he was currently only doing locum work at a RSPCA clinic in Camberwell, Mike invited him to come along to a few places he was looking after as a vet, mostly private animal shelters and farms on the outskirts of London. John isn’t actively looking for a new job just yet. In fact, the locum work suits him fine, if only getting to the clinic didn’t involve a stressful commute on public transport. John hasn’t yet acclimatised to the masses of grumpy, hurried people that crowd the Tube and the buses each day. However, he has been away from the city for so long and out of touch with what ‘normal’ vets are supposed to be doing that he agreed to indulge Mike this once. Moreover, the man is uncomplicated, undemanding, genuinely enjoyable company, and John is actually curious now to see the mysterious animal shelter in Putney Mike’s two daughters have been raving about ever since John joined them in the car.

“Why is it called feather? They’re no birds, they’re horses. They don’t have feathers,” objects Annie reasonably. “Do you know why it’s called that way, Doctor John?”

“Sorry, Annie, I’d have to look it up, too,” apologises John. “I’m not exactly a specialist for horses. You should ask your dad, he might know.”

Mike shrugs and smiles good-naturedly, casting a quick glance at his girls in the rear mirror. “I don’t know either, Annie, although think I should. It’s been some time since college, eh, John? Anyway, why don’t you ask Alicia once we’ve arrived. She’s the horse person. She might know.”

Annie nods, gazes out of the window briefly to watch the periphery of southern London stream past, then she draws a breath and continues her passionate account. She obviously holds the conviction that she has to fill in John with all the pertinent details of ‘her absolutely, totally favourite place in the world’.

“And they have donkeys, three of them,” she babbles excitedly. “And Pierre, he’s one of the donkeys, he’s all shaggy. Because he’s a Poo-too, you see. And they’re shaggy, even in summer.”

“Poitou,” corrects Tilda patiently. “That’s because he’s French. And it isn’t summer yet.”

“Miss Piggy and Lady Kermit are shaggy, too, but they aren’t French,” returns Annie indignantly. “They’re curly all over. Clara says it’s because they’re Manga pigs. And Lady Kermit will have piglets soon.”

“Mangalicas,” mutters Mike with a grin. “The kids love them.”

John smiles as he watches another of Wimbledon’s residential areas stream past outside the window. He’s tried to keep track of the route Mike has been taking from picking up John at Battersea Bridge, but they’ve taken so many turns and followed so many not-quite-official small roads to avoid traffic lights that he isn’t quite sure anymore whereabouts they are situated exactly. They _are_ heading west, however, and in the general direction of Putney, that much he knows.

“How did you find this shelter, Mike?” enquires John when Annie has finally ended her account. Now, she is dividing up the animal food from the bag between herself and her sister to ensure that all of their favourites (and the ‘others’) are going to receive their fair share.

“They advertised a while ago at the girls’ school. They were looking for kids to volunteer to help look after the animals, particularly the horses. That was last November, I believe. Some time before Christmas, in any case. The first time we went there was for their annual Christmas thing. The kids absolutely loved it. Three of the ponies can still be ridden, and Tilda has been talking about riding lessons since last summer, so we gave her some for her birthday in January. The other horses need exercise, too, and even Annie can help with leading them around the paddock. The shelter is mostly staffed with volunteers, most of them teenagers but also some retired locals. Moreover, some local parents come over with their small children to help pet the rabbits and what not. Extra hands brushing coats, mucking out stables, taking dogs for walks or playing with the cats never go amiss. You can even sit and read to the animals, which benefits them and the kids, apparently. And the girls adore it, even the dirty work. If it were up to them, we’d go every day, but with Laura working at the theatre full time again now and me doing my rounds near Golders Green where we live, we usually don’t manage to come more than once or twice a month, mostly on Saturdays, like today. Glad you could make it.”

John shrugs. It’s not that he has much else to do when he isn’t working, or that in fact he can do much with his injured shoulder and dodgy leg. He considered taking up cycling again, but is reluctant to try and subsequently find himself failing. “It sounded interesting, and I could certainly do with some more professional contacts. I’ve been rather out of the loop after having spent the past years abroad for most of their duration.”

“Might all be a bit mundane for you, though, if you really want to help,” muses Mike. “Some of the veterinary work is more or less unpaid, but while I take the kids, I might as well help out. They have a few paying customers who put their dogs in kennels when they’re on holidays. There’s a cattery, too, and they offer stabling for horses, but mostly it’s an animal shelter where all those creatures end up that were Christmas or birthday presents at one point and all the craze, but then grew and suddenly weren’t wanted anymore. Others were rescued from owners that treated them badly, that kind of thing. All in all, I like the place. They’re having the same problems like charities everywhere, mostly with funding, but at least there’s no shortage of enthusiastic volunteers at the moment.”

He casts a fond glance at his girls. “If only it were a bit closer to home. It’s not exactly easy to reach with public transport, particularly on weekends when some of the Tube lines are suspended for repairs. You don’t have a car, do you, John?”

John shakes his head. “Never needed one while I was in London. Not that I’ve spent much time here up until ... I was sent home.”

Mike nods gravely. “Do you miss it? The wild, I mean? Must be quite a shock to suddenly find yourself in a place this heavily populated again.”

John smiles wryly. “Let me just say that I can only endure a walk along Oxford Street in the middle of the night, and only a very short stretch at a time. People tend to get on my nerves very quickly. That’s why I haven’t really applied for a permanent job at a clinic, or looked into getting a position at a private practice.”

Mike gives him a shrewd look. “Fearing to get bored by vaccinating or castrating cats and dogs all day, and telling their owners not to feed them chocolate?”

John sighs. “Pretty much, yeah. It wears you down – which I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Pet owners seem to have been getting more and more idiotic recently. I don’t remember them being that irresponsible while at the same time feeling absolutely entitled back when we were students. They weren’t like that when I left, either. Still, you get some excitement, occasionally. Yesterday a family came to the RSPCA clinic with a box full of young degus, who promptly escaped.”

“Oh, degus are cute,” pipes up Tilda from the back seat. “Sadly, mum and dad don’t want us to have any.”

“That’s wise. They’re not so cute anymore when they’ve crept behind the cupboards and you’re trying to catch them again without having to shift all the furniture,” returns John. “One of the other clients offered to set her cat loose to help. Anyway, we managed to retrieve them all in the end, and personally, I didn’t mind the action for a change. It doesn’t compare, though,” he ends, knowing that he sounds wistful, his voice tinged with frustration and longing.

“Can’t you go back?” asks Mike. “Perhaps not ... where was it you were rendered out of commission? Siberia? Some place less dangerous, perhaps?”

John shrugs, smiling grimly. “That’s an interesting way of putting it, Mike. ‘Rendered out of commission’.”

“Were you attacked by a tiger, Doctor John?” enquires Tilda in an awed voice. “Dad said something about tigers.”

John turns to her and shakes his head. “No. I was in Siberia to rescue tigers and to protect them from poachers.”

“What’s a poacher?” asks Annie.

“They kill wild animals unlawfully, often protected species, like tigers,” explains John.

“And elephants and rhinos,” adds Tilda helpfully. “I saw a programme on the telly, and we talked about it when we went to the Museum with my class to look at the dinos and the other animals.”

“What do they do with the dead tigers?” asks Annie, sounding shocked. “They’re much better alive. We’ve seen them at the zoo. They’re cool, but only when they are alive. They can swim, did you know that? And they really like the water. Why do they kill them? Do they eat them?”

“No, they don’t eat them,” explains John. “And I agree that they are much cooler alive, especially when you see them in the wild and not in a Zoo. But some people want their coats, and others think their bones have special powers and should be used in medicine.”

Annie makes a face. “That’s stupid,” she declares, looking affronted. “Why can’t they just take cough drops when they’re ill? Or aspirin? I don’t like those poachers. They’re wankers.”

“Oi, Annie,” Mike reprimands her, like John fighting to suppress a grin, though. “She’s been picking up all kinds of undesirable terms at school lately, ” he mutters.

“Yeah, I bet,” whispers John.

“Sorry, daddy,” says Annie, despite not looking sorry at all. “Did you catch any poachers, Doctor John?”

“A few, yes. But they’re crafty, and the wilderness in Siberia where the tigers live is very large, so it’s difficult to find them.”

“Do you shoot them dead when you catch them?”

“No. We hand them over to the police.” _Mostly,_ he adds to himself. There were shootings, and a few times a poacher actually ended up dead because he had either been caught in his own trap, or suffered an accident during a chase. In most cases, however, they had given the rangers John and his colleagues had assisted the slip, or the local authorities had been bribed into releasing them again, themselves cashing in the trade with tiger parts.

“Do they go to prison?” asks Tilda.

“Sometimes. Or they have to pay money. But sometimes they are released, too, because they have help, or because they are too poor to pay the fines.”

“I think they should go to prison,” declares Annie with great conviction. “For ever and ever. Oh, look, Doctor John, we’re almost there. Can you see the farm already?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

 **Sunny Meadows Animal Shelter** , a brightly coloured sign attached to a wooden fence announces as they approach the gravel-strewn courtyard between the wings of a two-storied brick farmhouse. It is surrounded by a number of outbuildings and some tall trees, mostly birches and some beeches already clad in bright green leaves. In the middle of the drive, a circular flower bed grown with daffodils and tulips with a wooden, grinning Shaun the Sheep figure gives the place a cheerful if somewhat childish appearance. A few cars are parked to the left of the main house opposite the stables, and a considerable number of bicycles as well as a few folded scooters are leaning against the fence of a paddock that borders on the car park. Children of all ages are milling about. A small cluster is following a black teenage girl in riding gear who is leading a huge Clydesdale gelding across the court. The large horse ambles along good-naturedly, not heeding the devoted retinue and their calls for attention.

A squeal sounds from the rear seat. “Oh, oh, that’s Jude, and Alicia leading him,” Tilda exclaims excitedly, obviously forgetting the ‘reasonable big sister’ attitude she’s been trying to maintain ever since they picked up John. She is even bouncing up and down in her seat now.

Annie seems equally enthusiastic. “Can you see the feather, Doctor John? Because I can see it.” She waves and points and waves again. The teenager, Alicia, spots her and waves back.

“Yes, I see it.”

“Oh, can we go and say hello to Jude and Alicia, daddy? I must ask her why it’s called feather.”

“In a moment, Annie. And please leave your seatbelt on until the car has stopped, thank you. Don’t forget your jackets and your hats. The wind is quite cold today.”

The girls are barely listening, squabbling over who is to give the carrots to Jude, their previous, careful arrangement of the goodies apparently forgotten.

“They’re quite a handful, those two, eh?” asks John when they exit the car, the girls having struggled into their outerwear and already dashing off with their bag towards Alicia and the horse.

Mike fetches his own coat and his vet’s bag from the boot while John adjusts his walking stick. “You’ve no idea. But I tell you what, after an afternoon out here, they’re completely done in. Annie mostly falls asleep on the drive back. Makes for a quiet evening back home, so that Laura and I may actually manage to watch a film or have a nice dinner. Win-win situation, I’d say. Come on, I’ll show you around. Let’s see where Clara might be off to. She phoned me earlier and said there were some cases to look at if I had the time. Nothing serious, but apparently two of their dogs need their teeth seen to, and they’ve also received a new horse for stabling that’s making trouble. Actually, I might need your help there. I’m rather a specialist for pets, you see. It’s been a while since I’ve last treated anything larger than a St. Bernard.”

“I’ll gladly help out,” promises John, falling into step next to Stamford who, as John notes with the tiny hint of annoyance he always feels when people are being mindful of his condition, has slowed done again after walking off briskly at first. John hates it, the pitiful looks, the overly careful questions and enquiries after his health, the way people turn all considerate and cautious when they see his disability. Despite his limp, he isn’t a cripple, for God’s sake. And even if he were, it’d be none of their business. Most of all, however, he loathes his own body and mind for betraying him like that. He’s been shot in the shoulder, damn it, and not his bloody leg. And yet it is the leg that has been playing up lately. It’s all psychosomatic, he knows that, thank you very much. But apparently nobody has told that to the leg or the part of his brain operating it. The doctors in rehab suggested he see a therapist. He’s even tried, once or twice, but felt it hadn’t helped him at all. He’ll cope, he know he will. Eventually.

 

**- <o>-**

 

As they approach the main house, the door opens, and a tall, short-haired, powerfully built black woman steps out and stoops to don a pair of pink wellingtons that stand to the side of the door. When she straightens up again and looks in their direction, John stops short. “Clara?” he asks surprisedly.

For a moment, she looks confused, then her face splits into a broad smile. “Good God, Johnny, is that you? I haven’t see you in ages. What brings you here?”

“Well, Mike here, actually,” replies John with a faint smile. “Complete coincidence. He’s an old friend from uni. But what about you? Do you run this place?”

“In a way, yes. I took over from an elderly couple about two years ago. They were getting on and then he died and she moved away to live closer to their kids and grandchildren. And there I was, freshly divorced – you knew that, didn’t you? Anyway, I needed a clean break, and well, this turned out to be just the right thing. Come on, let me hug you. It’s been so long.” With that, she begins to descend the steps and approach him.

John hesitates. He’s never felt comfortable with hugging, but Clara used to be a good friend back when she was still married to his sister, and Harry and he were on speaking terms. He always liked Clara’s uncomplicated, straightforward manner. Therefore, engulfed in her firm embrace, he returns it briefly and claps her broad shoulders. She steps back a little to study him. Her gaze linger on the walking stick for a moment before lifting towards his eyes.

“Harry mentioned that you received an injury abroad, although she didn’t know much about it. Not exactly seen a lot of each other lately, have you? You and Harriet, I mean?”

John frowns. “Harry? You’re in contact again?”

“More than the two of you, apparently,” states Clara. John thinks she is blushing a little. “Actually, things have much improved. With her. With us, too. We’re on speaking terms again after not having had any contact for a while. Actually, she comes round twice a week to help with the accounts and other administrative stuff. You know how good she is at organising everything but herself, so she’s been a real asset for getting this place up and running again. The farm shop you see over there,” she points at another colourful sign, this one attached to the wall of the main house next to a side door, “that was her idea, and we hope to open it in May. So yeah, she’s been round. And things between us are … all right, I guess. Nothing romantic. But friendly.”

She shrugs, her blush deepening. “With the option for more, perhaps. Not sure yet. We’ll see. She’s been dry for almost a year now, did you know? And I mean dry. Not what she tried before.”

John sighs, guilt twisting in his stomach. His sister, her addiction and her failed marriage because of it are a dark spot on his conscience, because he feels that he has let her down, her and the rest of the Watson family, chiefly his parents. He went away to pursue his own career, spending a lot of time abroad, out of touch with the goings on at home. Harry once accused him of running away from family problems and responsibilities, and they’d had a bad row because of it that created a rift which hasn’t been bridged since, despite tearing open years ago. Back then he’d been angry at her, blaming her outbreak on the alcohol. But now after having had a lot of time to think in hospital and rehab, he is able to admit to himself that she was right. He chose the easy path, has looked away from what might be considered family duties by leaving her and their parents to look after elderly relatives and not assisting her with achieving and maintaining sobriety. Upon his involuntary return to England, he’s only rung their parents briefly to inform them of the situation but he hasn’t called in person yet, and he hasn’t called Harry at all, although apparently she’s been informed.

Now he nods at Clara’s words, giving her a tight smile. “That’s … um … good. You’re right, we’ve not been in touch lately. But it’s great to hear she’s doing better. Guess I should ring her one of these days.”

Clara regards him gravely. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” she says quietly. “She seemed pretty worried when she learned that you had been shot. How did that happen, anyway? I thought you were with the WWF?”

Her effusive talk falters when she notices John’s expression. “Sorry,” she apologises. “I tend to be a bit over the top, sometimes. No notion of personal space, that’s what Harry always said. Perhaps you’ll tell me some other time. It’s said to help. Talking. You know, with trauma. Anyway, let me show you around. I see you’ve donned sensible shoes. Some corners are rather mucky, if you want to see the stables and paddocks and everything. You wouldn’t believe in what attire some of the city folks show up here. Last weekend we had a bit of a spring party with quite a number of families in attendance, and there were some rich folks from Notting Hill swanning around in high heels and leather soled designer shoes. Luckily were were able to equip them with wellies and some reasonable jackets. You should have seen the bloke who refused them once he’d done a round of the stables with his kids.”

Mike chuckles at this, and John, too, grins faintly. “Do you get a lot of wealthy people here?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” replies Clara as they are crossing the courtyard towards the larger of the stables. “We did a bit of promotion in and around London during Christmas season. Harry’s idea, too. She revamped the website and had an artsy friend of hers design flyers and business cards and everything. You can adopt some of our animals now, and soon buy stuffed toys of them, too, once Mads and Eric get round to actually sewing them. And they were received very well, these offers. We went into schools and nurseries, and even had a stall at Camden Lock Market for a weekend. We also work with the local community. The primary school kids from Richmond and Putney are regulars, and there are some pretty wealthy folks around there. So yeah, people have been very supportive, and we were able to renovate quite a lot recently, as you can see in the new stable here. The place needed it, I’d say. And once the shop is up and running, and the tea-shop … yeah, we’ve got big plans. Could do with a regular vet, though,” she adds with a meaningful glance at both Mike and John.

John turns to his friend. “Is this why you brought me along?”

Mike shrugs, grinning in his habitual good-natured way. “Yes. Told you, didn’t I? I didn’t know about Clara and your sister, though. I’d no idea she was involved here as well, although I’d heard the name of Harry being mentioned. I’ve to admit, though, that I thought it was a bloke Clara was referring to.”

Gazing at the two, John has a vague feeling that he should resent being overrun like this, but he decides that actually, he doesn’t really mind. As much as he usually hates people for making decisions for him over his head, and leaving him out of the loop (that’s something he’s always resented about his sister and her tendency to try and organise everything without even enquiring if he’d be willing or able to contribute to whatever scheme she’s hatched), he assumes that neither Mike nor Clara have any ill intentions towards him. The idea of working in a place like this doesn’t exactly feel compelling compared to what he’s used to doing, particularly with the option of running into Harriet one of these days. He’d very much prefer to discuss and hopefully settle a few things between them first, on more neutral ground, if possible.

But on the other hand things could be worse. The least thing he can do now that he’s here is to have a look at the place. He has to admit that he is curious. Clara seems passionate about her endeavour. John remembers her as a committed and hard-working if a little too idealistic person. Harry’s more down-to-earth organisational skills have always complimented Clara’s enthusiasm well. Back when they were still together, Clara worked as a landscape gardener. She certainly has some outdoor skills, albeit John doesn’t know to what extend they encompass the care of animals.

“You wanted me to look after some dogs’ teeth, didn’t you, Clara?” asks Mike.

“Oh, of course. There’s the old Alsatian, Bruno. You know him. And a newcomer, Nobby, a mongrel who was found tied to a signpost next to the M25. He needs a thorough check and some vaccinations and de-fleaing, as well as a dental check.”

Mike shifts his bag into his other hand. “Right, I’m going to have a look. Enjoy the tour, John.”

John nods and waves, “Thanks, Mike.”

“How many people are working here?” he asks when he and Clara enter the stable, which, according to the various smells of animals and their fodder houses sheep and pigs, and some other larger species like cattle, although most of them seem to be out to pasture at the moment. Most of the stalls are empty right now, but clearly occupied at night as their bedding-covered floors imply. Hand-drawn name signs obviously created by primary school children adorn the boxes, and there are additional signs telling some of the animals’ stories.

“So far we’re relying on volunteers, but there are plenty of those. I have four people looking after the dog kennels and the cattery. Three are elderly ladies from the neighbourhood, Maude, Sophie and Amrita, and there’s Mr. Kingsley who used to breed dogs until he had a stroke and had to sell all of his. Plenty of girls are helping out with the horses, mainly my niece Alicia and her friend Larissa. They’re both hoping to study veterinary medicine once they’re done with school. Three times a week there’s also a retired jockey coming in, Hal. He’s a funny guy. Smokes like a chimney. Harry says he looks like Dobby the house-elf, and I kinda have to agree. But he’s good with the horses. Oh, and we have a couple of parents helping out when they can. Stella and Ted come almost every day with their son Oliver. He’s autistic, but he loves to sit with the cats and particularly with our chickens and talk to them. He doesn’t usually talk to people, but Stella says since they’ve been coming here he’s doing better with his classmates. Come on, through here. Careful, there is a small ramp which may be a bit slippery. Will you manage with the cane?”

John catches himself before uttering a sharp reply. She only means well, he knows that, but he loathes being pitied. “Yes,” he mutters gruffly.

On the other side of the stable, some paddocks and fenced in meadows are housing a variety of animals. In a muddy, low-fenced patch John recognises the curly-haired Mangalica pigs Mike’s daughters mentioned. Two large sows are lying in the shade of a low hut, flicking their ears lazily as the humans approach. One of them looks pregnant. John remembers one of the girls mentioning that a litter of furry piglets is going to arrive soon, surely a new attraction for the city kids. A small flock of sheep is grazing in a nearby meadow studded with bright yellow dandelion. Here, too, rare breeds are making up the majority of the animals, with even some Old Norfolks and a four-horned Manx Loghtan among them. Goats are there, too, in another paddock round the corner, their smell announcing their presence before John lays eyes on them.

“We’re hoping to add some more goats in the future to be able to make and sell cheese,” explains Clara. “The sheep were mostly gifts. They’re not enough of any one kind for actually breeding them, and most of them are too old for that, anyway.”

“So you just keep them to live out their lives here?” asks John.

Clara shrugs and nods. “Yes, basically. Same goes for our four cows and the oxen. They’re over there, behind the trees. Shetlands, all of them. Two of them had calves last year which we sold after they were weened, but we decided not to breed them again this year as our ladies are getting on. We’ve a kind of adoption scheme were people can ‘own’ them and pay a small fee every month to provide feed and stabling and what medical needs they have. Most of our animals have one or more ‘godparents’ now. The horses and donkeys are of course the most popular. Let’s turn left here. They’re on the other side of the buildings where we have a small riding paddock and some larger meadows.”

“Actually, I’m amazed about the amount of land that comes with the place,” comments John, looking about appreciatively. “I’d imagine rents to be exorbitant if you were to try and acquire it now, so close to green areas like Putney Common or even Richmond Park.”

“Oh yes, we’re very lucky. The previous owners tended to buy small portions of land whenever they became available, long before rents and property prices shot up into the skies. We’re hoping that we’ll be able to hold on to the green spaces. There’s high demand for more houses to be built, like it is anywhere in and around London, but we’re lucky to have the support of the locals. So fingers crossed that things won’t change for a while, although it’s fair to say that at the moment we’re rather well off. It even looks like we found ourselves a wealthy if somewhat mysterious sponsor.”

John raises a questioning eyebrow at this. “A sponsor?”

Clara inclines her head. “We’ve recently taken on one of his horses,” she explains. John detects the faint line of a frown creasing her forehead. She turns her head to gaze at him. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I need your professional opinion on this particular lodger.”

“The owner, or his horse?”

“The horse. He arrived three days ago, late in the evening, after closing time. Everything was very hush hush and mysterious. The owner is some posh bloke from London. And I mean _posh_ , let me tell you. Three-piece suit, very understated but expensive black car. A jag, no less. Heck, he was even carrying an umbrella. Only the bowler hat was missing or he’d have made a perfect John Steed, or the fellow from _Kingsman_. He knew a lot about us, so much that it was creepy. But he paid up front, for three months of stabling his precious horse. No expenses spared, we only had to sign to keep the animal separate from the others, and not show him around to our guests or even the regulars apart from Hal and Alicia. He’s under my care – not that I mind the mucking out and everything, that’s what I signed up for when I took over the place. But this horse, John … he’s a strange creature. And a fucking nightmare. I used to ride as a kid, and have worked with a number of animals since I started this, particularly horses, but I’ve never encountered one like him before. Neither has Hal. The poor man can usually tame the wildest, most traumatised creature. You should have seen the state poor Jude was in when he arrived, and now he’s the gentlest of giants.

“But even Hal the horse-whisperer didn’t fare well with this one. He doesn’t let anybody near him, barely eats, hardly touches even his water. He was heavily sedated when he arrived. They’d basically had to carry him into his stall. When he’d recovered from the anaesthetic, the creature raved for half a day. We feared he’d trash his stall, and injure himself in the process. We tried to sedate him again by putting some mild anaesthetic into his water, but he kicked over his bucket. Ever since then he’s been sulking, if a horse can sulk. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t want to call the owner or his fancy (although admittedly rather gorgeous) assistant, but I fear that I may have to if things don’t improve today. We can’t be sure because nobody has dared to enter the stall again after the stallion attacked Hal and me, but we think that he’s injured. He’s been favouring one of his legs, and when I last checked on him, he seemed weak yet skittish, and actually appeared to be trembling slightly. It’s such a shame, because he’s a beautiful horse. I’d hoped that Mike might have a look, but now that you’re here … You don’t have to, but …”

John shakes his head, smiling. “Clara, you don’t actually believe that after that kind of description I’d turn my back and refuse to even have a look at this mystery horse of yours, do you?”

She glances at him and grins, relief obvious in her face. “Not really, no. After all, you’re the idiot who chased poachers in Africa and whatnot, and freed an injured lioness from a wire snare without sedating her first, if rumours are true. You seem to thrive on danger. And this, well … it could be dangerous.” She winks at him.

John smiles wryly. “It was a leopard, and she was so weak she couldn’t have hurt me if she’d wanted to. Come on, show me your troublesome lodger.”

Clara claps his shoulder, which makes him flinch slightly since it’s his left one, the one that has been torn open by a poacher’s bullet not three months ago in the midst of the Siberian winter. Clara has already moved on without noticing his reaction, nor hearing his sharp intake of breath. Closing his eyes briefly and fighting down the tendrils of pain creeping through his arm, he grips the walking stick more firmly with his right hand and limps after her.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Dimly, he can hear the laughter of children and the dull clomp clomp of a large horse’s hooves on soft, yielding ground as he enters the backdoor of another stable, this one only housing horses, judging from the smell. Unlike the more recently built stables for the other animals, the horse stable seems to have been erected at the same time as the main house to which it is attached on one corner. With its stone-flagged floor, thick brick walls and high, arched windows that let in beams of bright spring sunshine from one side, made visible by the many fine particles of dust floating in the air, it almost looks like a medieval church or crypt. Particularly the two rows of brick pillars running along the middle of the aisle add to this impression, with their square capitals branching off into a vaulted ceiling.

Astonished and fascinated, John halts in the doorway and gazes around.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” asks Clara. “The house and these stables are quite old. I’m not an expert when it’s not a historic garden, but from what I gathered from the previous owners, the oldest parts were built in Tudor times. They’ve been modified constantly over the centuries, but a lot of the old stuff is still present. And now both our main house and these stables are Grade II listed buildings, which is good for us because we managed to get a bit of funding for their renovation and upkeep.”

As they pass along the aisle, John peers into the empty wooden stalls to both sides. They are obviously fashioned for horses of different sizes. As in the other stable, hand-drawn and brightly coloured name tags describe the usual occupants of the stalls. John recognises Jude the huge Clydesdale gelding who, according to the sounds from outside, is being exercised in a nearby paddock. John also finds the boxes of the three donkeys Mike’s girls have mentioned, among them Pierre the Poitou. Another stall belongs to Lady, Annie’s beloved pony. According to the fairly detailed drawing next to the name, she’s a white Shetland.

On some of the pillars tack such as halters, ropes or grooming kits hangs on iron pegs. Some stalls are completely empty of bedding and are used for storing more tack like saddles or bridles, hayforks and brooms, or sacks of oats and blocks of mineral lick.

In the middle of the stables, two doors opposite one another offer passage into the courtyard and the pastures behind the houses respectively. Ahead along the central aisle, the rear of the building is screened off by a wooden wall.

“We keep those horses that are lodging with us over there,” explains Clara, “to screen them from the daily comings and goings, and particularly the visitors. Some of the owners prefer privacy, and we’re happy to oblige. Come on, through here.”

“How many horses are boarding with you at the moment?” enquires John when Clara opens the door in the partition and lets him pass through. This part of the stable looks slightly different. While the architecture of the building remains unchanged, the structure of the stalls looks more recent and more professional, if that’s the right term. It reminds John of the stables he undertook one of his internships in back when he was still a student. These stalls might easily house Thoroughbred racers or fancy show horses.

“We have capacity for eight, as you can see,” says Clara as she leads him along. “But right now, only three are staying with us. There’s Gonzo over here,” she indicates a dabble-grey Andalusian who snickers lowly as they approach, fine ears pricked up and large, intelligent eyes riveted on the newcomers. “His owner’s had an accident. Bike versus lorry, up on London Bridge. She was lucky that she survived. She’s in rehab at the moment. He’s a precious, aren’t you, Gonzo?”

She steps over to pat his neck and brush his long wavy forelock out of his eyes. John smiles and joins her, rubbing the horse’s soft nose affectionately. “He’s quite old, but very sweet, and incredibly well trained. Used to be a film horse over in France. Once Alicia is done with Jude, she’s going to take him out for a bit of exercise. She adores him, as do we all, don’t we, Gonzo.”

She gives him a final pat, then turns round. “Over there,” she points across the aisle at an open but empty stall, “lives Tequila Sunrise.”

She laughs when John rolls his eyes and snorts at the name. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Former race-horse, owners are exactly the way you’d imagine them to be. They’ve taken her out for a ride today. She’s been with us for half a year now. Bit high-strung, but manageable. She suffered some ligament injury during her last race and had to pull out. She’s quite young still, and the owners hope to train her up again so she can at least compete in local races. I doubt that’s a good idea, but well …”

She sighs with a hint of exasperation (clearly, the owners of Tequila Sunrise are more troublesome than she lets on). John follows her as she moves on, cocking an eyebrow at the expensive looking grooming gear next to the stall, and the monogrammed horse blanket hanging over one of the sides. Animal owners can be a real pain in the arse, as well he knows from the RSPCA clinic. Reason and common good sense don’t always apply to them. He wonders what awaits him in the case of the mystery horse Clara described. His owner seems to be ticking all the boxes on the expansive list of the weird and eccentric.

The next stalls to either side of the aisle are empty, apart from the last one on the right hand side. No sunbeams reach here, the stall is cast in shadow. After the relative brightness of the previous part of the stables, John’s eyes need a while to adjust to the sudden gloom so that at first, when he steps over to the wooden partition and peers through the metal bars, he can’t actually see much. Then a soft, deep snort sounds from the depths of the stall, almost like a growl.

He stifles a gasp, and is immediately surprised by his reaction when he feels a spike of adrenaline rush through him. But then, perhaps he shouldn’t be, he reasons. The sound evokes buried memories. It reminds John of striped fur and claws and sharp teeth, of the smell of snow and blood and wild animal, of biting cold, of creeping, icy wind, of woodsmoke and the burn of Sergej’s vile, self-distilled Vodka in his throat. A sensation he’d almost forgotten after months of hospital and rehab and tedious, mind-numbingly boring locum work stirs in his chest. He feels himself tense, stand up straighter without leaning on his walking stick for once. The feeling is unexpected and raw and very, very welcome. For a brief moment, John Watson feels alive again, like he’s touched an electric fence, or drawn the first breath after an extended dive in the sea.

Whatever is lurking in the depths of the box, it feels dark and dangerous, and utterly fascinating. He half expects to behold a wild, fantastic creature, a dragon or a unicorn or some skeletal, flesh-eating monster horse when he steps even closer to the partition.

“Well, and here’s our latest addition and all-round problem child,” announces Clara in a somewhat resigned voice which stands completely opposed to John’s sudden excitement. “John, meet Sherlock.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration for chapter 1:  
> 


	2. The blue-eyed Frisian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments and kudos. They're greatly appreciated.

Sherlock turns out to be neither a dragon nor a unicorn, although the latter comes close. This at least is what John decides when his eyes finally adjust to the poor lighting and he is able to take in the occupant of the stall in his full if somewhat dishevelled glory. Sherlock is a Frisian stallion. He has the typical jet-black coat, a proudly curved neck which John has once heard being referred to as a “baroque” type, a powerful yet lithe build with a strongly muscled chest and legs, a long, slender body and voluptuous hindquarters with a deep-set, long and wavy tail. Sherlock’s mane is long and voluminous, too, falling in somewhat tangled waves over one side of his neck. His hooves and lower legs are covered in fine, dense feather that would delight Annie if she saw it, John thinks with a smile.

As far as John can judge, the stallion has a good confirmation and seems to be rather tall for a Frisian. What troubles John, however, and now his instincts and knowledge as a veterinary surgeon kick in, are several aspects about the horse that seem off, and concerningly so. Sherlock, for all the beauty and majesty usually associated with his breed, doesn’t look well, that much John can tell even from a relative distance and in the less than optimal lighting conditions of the stall. Sherlock’s mane and tail are dishevelled and filthy with bits of bedding clinging to the long hairs. Neither have seen a brush or comb in days, apparently. The black coat doesn’t look much better. It’s rough and matted, traces of sweat and dirt and possibly worse covering it in places. The neglect is obvious, although John doesn’t blame Clara or her staff. If the horse won’t let people touch him or attacks those who try, it’s rather difficult to groom him. Alarmingly, though, he doesn’t seem to have made any efforts lately at looking after himself.

This worries John, and his concern is increased by the way the animal holds himself. Sherlock’s head is drooping as if with exhaustion. He is favouring his left foreleg, and, worse, his right hind leg, the hoof of which barely seems to be touching the ground at all. To remain upright, the horse is more or less leaning against the rear wall of the stall. John cannot be certain, but Sherlock’s legs appear to be trembling slightly with the effort of remaining on his feet. He recalls Clara’s observations regarding the stallion’s condition, and that she noticed the trembling as well. Over the faint sounds from outside, John believes he can hear the stallion breathing in a laboured, pained fashion.

Suddenly, a ray of sunlight from the high window opposite the stall pierces the shadows of the box when the cloud that seems to have been veiling the sun moves on. Sherlock utters another low, growling sound and tries to shift away from the brightness. As he turns his head away, John manages to catch a glimpse of his eyes, and draws a startled breath. They are very light in colour, almost transparent, with a faint tinge of blue-grey. John has seen that kind of shade in animal eyes before, but very rarely in a horse, and certainly not a Frisian. Sherlock doesn’t have white markings of any kind. His coat is a solid black with a faint tinge of auburn when touched by sunlight, meaning his eyes shouldn’t be lacking pigment they way they obviously do. So far, John has only encountered blue eyes in Paint Horses, particularly those of the Splashed White variety, where the lack of pigmentation is sometimes linked to deafness or deficiency of sight. Sherlock, however, seems to be hearing all right, his delicate ears flicking towards John and Clara as if listening closely for any sign of danger.

“Do you know whether he was injured when he arrived here, or if he hurt himself since then?” enquires John.

Clara shrugs. “He didn’t have any open wounds, but it’s possible that his legs were damaged. As I said, he was so doped up that he was barely able to walk, meaning it was almost impossible to tell whether he was already lame at the time, or favouring any of his legs. There was a vet accompanying the transport who checked him over once he was installed in this box, but he may have missed a few things because the horse wasn’t responding very well. He left us some medication, mostly tranquillisers and some antibiotics, but so far we’ve not administered any of them, since I didn’t want to do so without consulting another professional. Hal tried to get a closer look at Sherlock yesterday, and almost got a hoof to his forehead for his efforts, and his fingers bitten off. He did mention that the horse didn’t seem well, however, but he wasn’t sure if it was simply the stress of coming to in a strange place or some other, more serious ailment. Subsequently, we attempted to slip some of the tranquillisers into Sherlock’s food and water, but he barely touched any of it. And you can see what mess he’s made in his stall. It’s almost like he suspected something and therefore kicked his buckets around.”

Yes, John can see that perfectly. The interior of the box looks like a bomb has exploded there. The bedding on the ground has been torn up. The manger has been partly ripped off the rear wall, hay spilling over the floor with some even hanging two metres up on the rough surface of the brick wall caught in the cobwebs swaying there, as if it has been tossed up there by angry hooves. What used to be a bucket containing oats has been trampled into the ground, the plastic split open and the content spilling into the bedding. The water-bucket hasn’t fared much better.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Sherlock,” mutters John. “Done a bit of redecorating, eh?” The stallion’s ears turn briefly in his direction, and Sherlock gives a low rumbling snicker before his head sways away from the doorway again and he begins to paw the ground with his left forehoof.

The longer John is watching the horse, the more he wonders what happened to the creature. In his experience, no animal is this hostile, even dangerous on its own, unprovoked. He’s dealt with trapped rhinos, elephants and large predators that calmed down even during moments of extreme stress and trauma when they realised that he and his colleagues were about to help them, to free them from snares or traps and ease their pains. Sherlock doesn’t look like he has been beaten or otherwise abused, but it’s plain to see that he has been through a lot to make him fear and distrust humans that much. The fact that he doesn’t seem to have touched any food or water is worrying as well.

John feels pity as well as anger stir in him. He doesn’t know what happened to Sherlock, yet, but he’s convinced that if anybody is to blame, it’s going to be humans. The fierce desire to help this creature flares up in him, as he’s felt so often before, to somehow right the wrongs other people did to an animal. He isn’t sure if he’ll be able to, but he’s more determined than ever to try.

“I’m going in,” he informs Clara grimly.

“You don’t have to, John,” she cautions quickly. “I’ve a mind of phoning his owner. There’s clearly need of a specialist here if we want to help him. At least some definite decision needs to be made whether we’re allowed to thoroughly sedate and restrain him again to be able to check him through and treat him. Mr. Holmes, his owner, he was very adamant that we handle him with the utmost care and delicacy. He didn’t let out much about the horse’s history or background, but he did mention some major trauma and Sherlock needing time to adjust to the new conditions. Which is all very well, but seeing him like this, obviously suffering and not being able to help him because he won’t let us … I understand that you want to go in. But don’t take any risks, okay.”

“I’ll just want to have a closer look to gauge what’s wrong with him apart from stress and fear,” John says. “I don’t like the way he’s holding himself. He seems exhausted beyond measure, which could be explained by his recent activities, but I suspect there’s more to his state than just exhaustion.”

He doesn’t add how intrigued he is by the horse and his strange blue-grey eyes. He licks his lips. _Could be dangerous, oh yes indeed._ This is dangerous, and oh, how he has missed a challenge like this. He casts a furtive glance at Clara who is watching him with a cautious, somewhat worried expression. John suspects she has seen right through him, but he decides he doesn’t care. According to his sister, he’s always been a thrill-seeker, a risk-taker, so if that’s what Clara takes him for, she’s not entirely off the mark.

“Okay,” she relents. “I’ll let you in. Be careful.”

She unlocks the door and slowly slides it open far enough for John to squeeze through. Upon seeing his surprised glance at the padlock, she shrugs.

“His owner warned us to be extra cautious with this one,” she explains. “Apparently he managed to unlock and open the door of his stall and the gate of the stables he was housed in previously. No idea how he did that without hands, but he certainly seems very shrewd and clever.”

John nods. He stands up taller, hefts his walking stick with a determined grasp, and slips inside. Immediately, Sherlock tenses. The stallion shifts his weight onto all four legs and his head jerks up, the fascinating eyes fixed on John. He snickers softly, threateningly. The noise reminds John of the growl of a trapped tigress he freed from a wire snare in September. He feels his heartbeat pick up and his vision sharpen, his entire stance tightening in a way it hasn’t done since his injury.

Sherlock seems to notice the change. He tenses even more, his nostrils wide and flaring. Cautiously, John steps closer while behind him, Clara quickly draws the damaged buckets out of the stall and then taps John’s shoulder. “Open your hand and hold it behind you. I’ve got something that might appease him.”

John feels her press something small into his left hand when he stretches it in her direction. _Horse treats,_ he feels, smiling faintly.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he greets the horse, speaking in a low, steady voice that he hopes sounds calming and unthreatening to the stallion. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously but for the time being makes no effort to either attack him or back away further into the wall. “I’m not here to hurt you, okay,” John goes on soothingly. “I simply want to have a look at you, yeah? See what’s wrong, why you won’t put weight on your legs and all that. And I’ve brought you something.”

He rattles the horse treats in his hand, then drops most of them except for one into the pocket of his jacket. The last one he holds towards the horse on the flat of his hand. Sherlock sniffs, looking tempted for a moment, before snorting in an almost derisive manner, shaking his mane and beginning to paw the ground again.

“Hey, you should try them. You look like you’ve not eaten properly in days. And they’re good, I’m sure. Oats and dried carrots and apples and all kinds of yummy stuff.”

Sherlock snorts again, shaking his head more firmly. For a brief moment, John has the distinct impression that he horse somehow understood exactly what he said and that moreover Sherlock’s a bit of a picky eater. Then he rolls his eyes at his own fancy and grins. “Come on, just try them. I’ll leave them here for you, okay.”

Slowly, not letting the stallion out of his sight, John places three of the treats on the ground after he’s brushed away some of the bedding, and steps back. Sherlock watches him, then, as he straightens up, he gives John what can only be described as a glare. It’s not particularly hostile, rather exasperated and frustrated, as if John is getting on his nerves far more than threatening him. John feels compelled to try and reason with the horse, before reminding himself that for all their intelligence and keen survival instincts they’re just animals, and that one mustn’t attribute them any human qualities or worse, emotions.

Cautiously, John moves over to the left wall of the stall where the wooden boards show clear marks of Sherlock’s hooves. John notices that these are unshod and don’t bear any traces of having ever borne horseshoes before. They haven’t even been filed recently, although they do look like Sherlock walked a considerable distance on hard ground. John wonders at that. It’s highly unusual to not shoe a horse that is either worked under saddle or used as a draught horse, particularly in a city where there’s a high chance that it’s being exercised on firm ground. Sherlock doesn’t even wear a halter, and for some reason he can’t quite define, John doubts that he’s ever been in contact with either bridle or saddle before, like a yearling prior to training. He doesn’t look that young, however. His confirmation is that of a full grown horse, neither a yearling nor a colt. It’s exceedingly strange that a horse like him shouldn’t have received any training whatsoever throughout his life. Why keep him, if not for riding or driving? Breeding, perhaps?

“Clara,” he calls to her, “do you have any papers for him? I’d be interested in learning his age, and whether he has any known ailments or allergies.”

“Yes, we were given a file with some documentation. I had a look through it. His papers seemed in order, and he was listed as healthy with no known allergies and all the usual vaccinations in place. Otherwise we wouldn’t have taken him on. Can’t have an animal infecting the others with flue or similar shit. His last abode seems to have been Hyde Park Stables, in Kensington. Posh place, must be close to where the owner lives. I didn’t even know they were offering stabling, but Mr. Holmes looks like he’s got special connections. Anyway, Sherlock didn’t stay there for long, not even a week. Seems to have caused some major trouble there, too, and even managed to escape once. If you look online, there’s an article in the _Fail_ about a stray horse running through Regent’s Park. There’s even a photo, and the horse on there looks a lot like our Sherly here. But then, that’s the _Daily Mail_ we’re talking about. You’ve got to take everything they write with not just a grain but a bucketload of salt. Mr. Holmes didn’t want to comment further on the matter. Guess that tells you something about whether it’s true or not, doesn’t it? So yeah, everything apart from this story seemed okay. The only thing that struck me as off in his documentation was his date of birth. Sixth of January 1977. That’s why I remember it so clearly, because that’d make him a bit older than myself.”

“’77? Really?” asks John in astonishment. “Wow, that’d make him … what … thirty-eight now? He doesn’t look that old. No way.”

He cocks his head, studying the stallion critically. No, Sherlock certainly doesn’t look like a Methusalem. He has no visible grey hairs, no cataracts in his remarkable eyes, his legs are still straight and strong without outward signs of arthritis, and his coat, once it’s been cleaned and brushed, could surely be worked into a shine again as he seems to have shed his winter coat all right and not retained it as some really old horses do. John hasn’t yet seen his teeth, but by all outward appearances, Sherlock isn’t an old horse. Thirty-eight would be an old age even for a pony, and for a Frisian unlikely to reach at all.

“That’s weird indeed,” John muses. “Do you think the papers have been tampered with?”

Clara makes a noncommittal sound. “With an owner like that, everything’s possible, I suppose. The bloke had government written all over him. But as I said, the medical data seemed correct – as far as I can judge that–, and moreover it seemed to be in the owner's expressed interest that the horse remains in top condition. So why would he give us false data? As I said, he seemed very worried about him, as much as he led on, anyway, cold fish that he seems to be. He didn’t say it outright, but it appears that Hyde Park Stables more or less chucked him out, and that’s a prestigious establishment, much better suited for looking after difficult cases such as his lordship here. But it seems there were fed up with Sherly’s antics, and Mr. Holmes had no choice but to relocate him. As I said, I’ve a mind of calling him. Do you want to come out again?”

“Give me another moment.” John continues to observe the stallion, who hasn’t moved but seems to have been listening closely and surveying John like a panther ready to pounce, or rather ready to bolt and run than attack his visitor. Despite his tense stance, however, John can clearly see his exhaustion, and the fact that he can barely put weight on his hind leg because it pains him. He hasn’t touched the treats, either.

“Here, now,” John addresses him soothingly. “I’m only here to help you. I won’t hurt you, I won’t even touch you, okay?” He raises both hands in a gesture of surrender, dropping his stick into the straw. “Just let me have a look at your other side, okay? Let me see if you’ve got some injury there.”

Slowly, he approaches the horse. Sherlock’s head jerks up again, and once more the low, growl-like snicker sounds from his throat. John takes another step. He’s close enough now to see the fresh perspiration on the stallion’s dark coat, and the streaks of dried sweat from previous exertions. There are scratches on his legs, most notably on the left foreleg he favoured previously, the knee of which seems slightly swollen, with scabs covering a small wound. Along the strong neck, John notices marks where the hairs of the coat are rubbed into different directions, with lines visible that can only have been caused by ropes, quite a lot of them. He imagines Sherlock trying to escape and people catching and restraining him with lassos or similar contraptions. It’s also possible that he got caught in a bunch of brambles and tore himself free again. No wonder the animal is stressed and unhappy. Some of the ropes appear to have cut him quite deeply, to be showing on his coat still after more than a day. There are more shallow abrasions and lacerations on his chest. They almost look like he dashed through a fence or some dense, thorny shrubbery.

“You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you?” John mutters. Sherlock snorts at this, and withdraws a step which causes his right rear and flank to rub against the brick wall at the back of the stall. Upon making contact, John can see how a shudder ripples through the stallion’s body, convincing him that there is indeed some larger injury still hidden from his view. Very slowly, he lowers himself so he can peer under Sherlock’s belly, aware that in this position he is vulnerable to a potential attack. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, but makes no move towards him.

The sun has vanished behind clouds again. John casts a glance upwards. There are some lamps attached to the high ceiling, but he doubts they’d make much difference if switched on. Like this, it’s difficult to be sure in the dim light and against Sherlock’s dark coat, but John believes he can see some dried blood on the inside of the stallion’s right hind leg. The hock and particularly the ankle look swollen. Without feeling them or – better – x-raying them, John cannot be sure if there has been damage to the bones, tendons or ligaments, or all of them, or whether they’re arthritic after all. What he can see, however, is a long splinter lodged in the coronet of the hoof, half-obscured by the abundant feather.

He bites his lip. It’d be the work of a moment to grab the hoof and withdraw the splinter, but to get there, he’d more of less have to creep under the horse’s belly and right into trampling distance of his hooves, or try and approach him from the other side which Sherlock so cautiously guards against view. Also, an action like this is likely to cause the horse additional stress, and moreover carries the danger of the splinter not getting removed properly. It would be better to sedate the patient and extract it, check for infection, and investigate his other injuries as well. They need to be cleaned at least, and tetanus jab won’t go amiss, either, even if the horse is already vaccinated. Perhaps antibiotics will have to be administered, too, although for this John would have to know whether Sherlock has had an adverse reaction to any of them in the past.

Slowly, so as not to spook Sherlock, John straightens and gazes at his patient. So far, he’s been suspicious and frightened, but not malicious. Few animals are, but like humans, they are bound to react unaccountably when in pain and fear. And yet ... and yet ... if he can move quickly enough … John is still tempted to try and get rid of the splinter with one fell swoop.

He feels his heart hammer in his chest in a way it hasn’t done since Siberia. He casts a quick glance back towards Clara. She has stepped inside the stall, too, and has obviously guessed that he is up to something. Sherlock, too, has tensed and is currently looming over John, snorting agitatedly.

“Anything I can help you with?” she asks, her voice tense.

“He’s frightened and in pain,” answers John, his eyes still fixed on the stallion as he takes a few slow steps back, out of the immediate reach of Sherlock’s hooves. “I couldn’t see it clearly because he wouldn’t let me, but I think he’s got some cut or abrasion on his right flank or ribcage that bled down his leg. Also, he seems to have been restrained with ropes and damaged the two legs he favours, either during transport or at his previous stables, or when he tried to take apart his stall yesterday. It’s possible that he cut himself while ripping down his manger. There seem to be traces of his coat and torn out hairs from his mane attached to it’s remains. Also, there’s a splinter in his right hind coronet that likely has caused infection. It’ll have to be removed without much more delay. Clara, you said the owner left you some antibiotics and other medication? If yes, I’d like to have a look at them. At his papers, too. Has he been vaccinated against tetanus, for example, or are there any known allergies or reactions against antibiotics such as penicillin? He has numerous abrasions and perhaps even lacerations. I’ll have to check if they’re healing on their own of if they are infected. He might need sutures, if the wounds are deep. In any case they need to be cleaned properly. But for a closer inspection, he must be sedated. Trying to restrain him would only cause additional stress, and the poor thing has been through enough.”

John watches the agitated horse who has only calmed down marginally upon John stepping back. Now Sherlock’s eyes are switching between him and Clara, as if to gauge who constitutes the more immediate threat. “I’m not keen on getting by head bitten off or kicked in, but I might need help sedating him. You don’t happen to have a blowgun, do you?”

“No, I don’t. But I’ll see if I can find Mike and ask him. He might have one. I’ll fetch the papers, too, and what medication his owner left for Sherlock. There is a first aid kit in the little room at the end of this building, just behind the partition of this stall. The door’s unlocked. I’ve prepared some fresh water and oats. They’re in the buckets just outside the stall. He must be thirsty. I just hope he won’t just kick them over again in a strop. Oh, is there anything I can get you, John? You must be thirsty, too. Water, lemonade, tea?”

“Tea would be lovely, actually,” replies John, only now realising how dry his throat feels. “Just milk, no sugar. Thanks a lot, Clara.”

She smiles. “Least I can do.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time Clara returns in the company of Mike and a small, thin, bandy-legged man with the most splendid pair of jug ears John has ever seen _(Dobby the house-elf indeed_ , he thinks, suppressing a grin) who can only be Hal the ex-jockey, John has replenished Sherlock’s oats and water supply and fetched the first aid kit. It’s well-stocked, he notices after rifling through it, and he has already begun selecting what he’s going to need when a steaming mug of tea appears in his line of sight. Gratefully, he takes it, and between sips from the beverage, and after a short introduction by Clara, he fills in Mike and Hal of what he has observed. Hal nods with a grim expression as he withdraws a half-smoked dog-end from behind his ear and looks at it doubtfully.

“It’s what I thought, too,” he snarls, his voice rough and breathy and rather high, indicating a likely life-long smoking habit. Clara gives him and his cigarette a stern glance and he sighs dramatically. Obviously, there has been some Conversation about smoking inside the stables. He returns the fag behind his ear and coughs. “You need my help, Doc, you say it. He’s a right devil, that one is, but guess that’s because his humans didn’t treat him well. It’s always people messing up them horses, not the other way round. Poor bugger.” _He even sounds like Dobby,_ thinks John amusedly, but he can only agree with Hal’s statement because it sums up his experience, too.

Flicking through the file, John quickly takes in what he needs to know about Sherlock’s medical history. It’s brief. He doesn’t seem to have had any major ailments or injuries, and no allergies or adverse reactions to medication in the past. There is no indication of a tetanus vaccination, either, so John tells Mike to get the jab ready, as well as a tranquilliser dart for his blowgun.

Mike rubs the back of his neck as he handles the instrument. “Can’t recall when I last had to use one of these. You want to do the honours, John?”

John nods. In fact, he hasn’t used one in a long while, either. Out in the field he used a real gun to shoot the darts (and, even more often, to shoot warning bullets in the direction of poachers), and he was rather good with it, easily drawing level in terms of accuracy with his more military minded colleagues, the rangers he used to accompany in Africa and Siberia.

He takes up the loaded gun and steps up to the bars. Sherlock has withdrawn into the shadows at the far end of his stall. He is now fully leaning against the wall, his head drooping even lower and his breathing audible in the tense silence of the stable. He does, however, still manage to glower at John out of the gloom with his weird, colourless eyes. _Poor bugger indeed,_ thinks John. _High time somebody looks after you._

He aims briefly, and lets the dart fly. It hits Sherlock squarely in his broad haunch. He startles with a jerk of his head and a surprised snort, but seems to lack the energy to make more fuss about it. He does, however, turn his head to look at the dart, before fixing his gaze on John again and holding it almost accusingly, which startles the doctor in return. This is uncanny, there is no other word for it. John is used to animals dashing about trying to escape while the tranquilliser takes effect, but he’s never experienced this direct confrontation, albeit of glances only.

Sherlock stands still but for a slight trembling of his limbs, his strange eyes not leaving John’s, his glare steady and unwavering with a hint of what to John looks like resignation, until the trembling increases and Sherlock’s legs begin to buckle. Swaying, he tries to steady himself against the wall again but his legs don’t support him anymore, until they fold underneath him and Sherlock crumbles onto the straw-strewn floor, falling onto his left side and thus leaving his right exposed.

Already sliding open the door and stepping into the stall, John takes in the stallion’s injuries. Apart from what he spotted on his legs, there is a long gash on Sherlock’s right side which seems to have bleed considerably down his flank. The bleeding has stopped now, but the wound looks ugly and will require a careful but thorough cleaning as well as stitches. John cannot be sure how the stallion received the injury, but he suspects he hurt himself while ripping apart his stall, likely cutting himself on the remains of his destroyed manger. John wonders why Sherlock indulged in a fit of rage in the first place. Was he trying to escape again? How desperate must an animal be to go to such lengths?

Slowly, John approaches, all the time talking softly and soothingly to the injured horse. Although Sherlock has been knocked over by the tranquilliser, he is still conscious, and tries feebly to get back to his feet, and, when this doesn’t work to at least lift his head to be able to follow John’s movements with his eyes. He makes another half-hearted attempt at struggling to his feet again, but apparently realises immediately that his legs won’t obey him anymore and lets his head flop down again with a frustrated but rather pitiful snort.

“Hey now,” soothes John as gingerly, he kneels down next to the horse’s head and extends a hand for Sherlock to sniff at. The stallion’s nostrils flare as they take in John’s scent, before he closes his eyes as if in surrender. Very slowly and careful so as not to spook him, John stretches out his hand further until it lightly touches Sherlock’s soft nose. A faint shudder ripples through the horse’s body at the contact, but he doesn’t open his eyes again and makes no move to either try and get up again, or, worse, bite at John’s fingers. John hopes he has understood now that he is going to be helped and not harmed.

Carefully stroking the head, John continues to talk to the horse. From up close, he notices several shallow cuts and abrasions across the muzzle where apparently Sherlock forced his way through some branches. Luckily, the region around his eyes is undamaged. Shifting along the horse’s body, John draws in a breath when, flipping back strands of the voluptuous, wavy mane, he sees that there is another gash down Sherlock’s neck. Long dark hairs are caught in it, and it bled profusely but has stopped now. It looks older than the other cut, and John wonders whether Sherlock got it while he was being recaptured, and that it was overlooked because it was hidden by the mane. It’ll definitely need sutures.

More worrying than the injury, however, is the gleam of sweat on Sherlock’s broad neck, particularly where it was covered by his mane. John noticed the sheen on other parts of his body before. Now he places a hand on the damp coat to measure the temperature. It’s far too high, and moreover Sherlock’s pulse is too fast and too irregular.

Gazing up to where Mike and Hal are hovering in the door, he beckons to them to come over. “Bring your bag, Mike, and the first aid kit,” he advises them. “Also, Clara, you don’t happen to have a drip, do you? He’s feverish, and I’d like to try and get him hydrated again, given that he has not drunken properly since yesterday and likely won’t be persuaded to take any water now.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” replies Clara. “Or buy. Is there anything else you need?”

“I’ll make you a list once I’ve had a closer look at his injuries. This may take a while here.”

“Is it that serious?”

“Too early to say. There are more injuries than I thought, and I’m worried about the fever and his general state. Some of his wounds are likely infected. I hope he won’t go into septic shock.”

He turns to look at Clara and frowns. “Actually, I think it’d be best if you called his owner if he’s so concerned about him. We may need some extra information about his medical past, and in any case he should be informed. I hope this won’t turn critical, but you never know. Better be prepared. Now, Hal and Mike, I’ll need your help. Could you hand me a pair of gloves, please?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Throughout the next hour, with Hal’s assistance John and Mike clean and disinfect Sherlock’s numerous injuries, to then close them with sutures where needed, or tape them up. They carefully remove the splinter in his coronet and bandage the hoof. While the other lacerations and abrasions are fairly shallow and should heal well and without problems, it seems the splinter has been stuck in the leg for a while, undiscovered by the feather. It has caused infection, and the sepsis has spread, hence the swollen joints on the leg.

John is still stitching up the cut on Sherlock’s neck when Hal carefully runs his hands along the injured hind leg and gives a worried grunt.

“I don’t like the feel of this, doc,” he opines darkly. “Them joints, they are swollen somewhat big, and the leg’s bloody hot. I can feel the blood throbbing in it. Have seen that before in racers when they’d been worked too early or too much, or had a fall during a steeple race. They all went lame after, or had to be put down, even.

Sherlock, who so far has lain still and only twitched faintly at the tetanus jab and the removal of the splinter but otherwise endured the treatment silently, now opens his eyes. He tries to lift his head but fails. Letting out a long breath, he rests it on the straw again, one eye swivelling until he can see John. His gaze is almost pleading.

John pats his sweaty neck gently, before leaning forward to rub the horse’s head affectionately. “Hey, hey, boy, we’re not going to put you down just yet. You’ll be getting some heavy antibiotics soon, and we’ll likely have to use an IV-drip to get some fluids into you again since you refused to drink. We’ll do everything we can to get your fever down and you back on your feet. The rest is up to you.”

He gives the stallion’s head another gentle rub before he resumes his needlework, noticing the doubtful but also slightly amused glances Mike and Hal are exchanging. He’s not bothered by their amusement. He usually talks to the animals he’s treating, and in the past, colleagues have commented on the calming qualities of his voice. He’s been known to even hum or sing to difficult or hopeless cases, or play music while performing complicated surgery, both to calm his nerves and those of the creatures he tends to. He likes to believe that it helps. It certainly helps him. Let people believe that he’s a bit soft and balmy. John doesn’t mind. Fact is, he prefers to be around animals and talk to them than talk to humans. Colleagues are all right, and those few friends or closer acquaintances he has are tolerable as well. Most of the time, anyway, yet John needs breaks even from their company. He’s never been good with crowds of people, and even though he’s seen his share of parties and socialising during his university days, even then he spent almost more time on overnight shifts looking after desperate cases than in the pub or at the disco. Once, his sister accused him of caring more about ‘those damn critters’ than actual humans, meaning herself and their family. John knows she has a point, although he wasn’t able to admit it back during their confrontation.

But she was right, of course. This trait of his, the desire to not be among humans too much but help all kinds of other creatures was what drove him to actively seek employment with organisations abroad. That, and the prospect of danger, of adventure.

After finishing the suture, wiping it down with Betadine and then applying a bandage, he gives Sherlock’s neck an encouraging pat again. “All done here, Sherlock,” he informs him. The stallion lifts his head fractionally again and snorts weakly, before closing his eyes wearily, his breathing shallow and laboured. John sighs and accepts the syringes with antibiotics Mike hands him out of the small cooler bag Clara has fetched.

“We should try a cooling poultice on his legs,” suggests Hal. “I know some recipes. His left knee needs some looking too as well. Won’t be able to stand on two legs only, if he ever manages to get up again, poor old geezer.”

John nods thoughtfully. He knows that many of his colleagues sneer about home-made medication, but if he stints abroad have told him anything, it’s that listening to what the locals know about alternative methods of treatment is invaluable. Several of his colleagues in Africa and elsewhere surprised him with methods that went against everything he learned at university and during his veterinarian training. And Hal has spent all his life among horses, and from the way he has assisted throughout the procedures so far he appears to really know what he’s doing.

Therefore, John nods appreciatively. “Good idea, Hal. I’ll stay with him while you get the poultice ready. I’ll see if he might take some water after all. The tranquillisers will wear off soon, so we should get everything done, although I doubt he’s going to make trouble. Poor creature looks completely done in. ”

Mike gets up from where he’s been kneeling in the straw to bandage the cut on Sherlock’s side. Brushing bedding from his trousers, he stretches, and begins to collect wrappers and used syringes to dispose of them later, holding out a hand for John’s discarded gloves. “I’m going to have a look to see how my girls are faring. I’m rather sure they’re going to want to stay longer, so I can be around for a bit should you need me. Hal, anything I can get you for your poultice?”

“I’ll come with you, doc. You gonna be all right in here, Dr. Watson?”

“John, please. And yes. Just draw the door to, will you. Oh, and hand me my tea. Thanks.”

“It’s cold,” comments Mike as he picks up the mug where John put it down previously. He hands it over to John, who has scrambled to his feet as well, his leg troubling him after kneeling and sitting on the ground.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve certainly drunk worse,” he replies with a wry smile, recalling those times abroad where a proper cuppa was hard to come by, having to make do with local alternatives, some of which were … interesting, to say the least, and took some getting used to. Ultimately, the strong Russian tea from Aleksey’s samovar turned out to be surprisingly okay, so much so that John misses it sometimes.

After fishing some stalks of straw out of the mug, he takes a long draught, leaning back against the wooden door and closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees that Sherlock is watching him with surprising sharpness, given his sedated state. His nostrils flare faintly as if trying to catch the scent of the beverage.

“Are you smelling the tea, mate?” asks John. “It’s nice, even though it’s cold. I doubt that it’s good for you, though, otherwise I’d give you some. But you can have some water. Let’s try that, okay?”

Emptying the mug with one swig, he moves over to the water-bucket to rinse it and then fill it with water. He returns to Sherlock and slowly kneels down at the horse’s head. Sherlock snorts faintly again. John gently runs his hand along his head, stroking aside the long forelock. Sherlock tolerates the touch, but John assumes he’s simply too exhausted to make a fuss about it. Seeing his eyes up close, John notices a tiny speck of gold above the pupil of his right eye.

“Quite unique, your eye-colour,” he comments thoughtfully. Sherlock snickers softly as if in agreement.

“I wonder if any of your ancestors had Splashed White genetics,” goes on John as he pours some of the water into his hand and dribbles it onto Sherlock’s mouth. The horse tenses slightly when the cold liquid touches his lips, but then he begins to lick at the moisture. John smiles. “That’s it, my boy. Here, have some more.”

Carefully, hand by hand, he feeds the contents of the mug to Sherlock, who obediently licks and swallows. John is relieved to see him drink, even though a check of his temperature shows that it hasn’t fallen but risen even more. With a sigh, he struggles to his feet again, stands a moment to stretch his dodgy leg, before he limps over to the water-bucket to refill the mug.

When he turns, he sees that Sherlock has shifted his head to be able to watch him better, and is again giving him one of his intense stares. John hobbles back to him and slowly kneels once more. To his surprise he finds Sherlock stretch his neck to nose at the shin of his troublesome leg. John looks at him questioningly, then smiles wryly.

“Yeah, I’m lame, too. Although in my case it’s all up here.” He taps his temple. “Psychosomatic. But still a bother. Let’s hope that you won’t retain any lameness from your leg injuries. You must be yearning to walk and run properly again, and be outside of this stall, large and airy though it is.”

Sherlock snorts and closes his eyes. For moment, John thinks that he looks immeasurably sad, but then scolds himself. As strangely natural as it feels to sit here and talk to Sherlock – indeed, it seems to John like he has known him for a long time, like an old and nonjudgemental friend –, he mustn’t forget that he’s only an animal who doesn’t understand a word he’s saying and is only reacting to the sound and cadence of his voice, and his smell, perhaps. Sherlock is a patient, what’s more, and therefore a temporal acquaintance. It won’t do to attribute any human qualities to him.

“Here, have some more water,” John says gently.

Sherlock drinks half the mug, then refuses to take in more. John tries to interest him in a horse treat that he’s found in his jacket pocket, but Sherlock refuses that, too.

John sighs. After disposing of the mug, he shifts to sit down on the floor on a heap of hay and straw, stretching out his legs to ease the not-entirely-imagined pain in his knees. Not long ago they didn’t trouble him, but now that he’s this side of forty, he thinks he begins to feel old age creep up on him. Casting a thoughtful glance at Sherlock while recalling his date of birth, he wonders yet again whether his documentation has been tampered with. It did look official, but one never knows. Sherlock looks like a horse in his prime despite his sorry condition, and certainly not like one that’s nearing forty and should be displaying definite signs of age.

He looks at the stallion as he lies on his side, his breathing still laboured but calmer now. John absently cards a hand through his tousled mane and begins to comb bits of straw and twigs out of the dark curls. Sherlock hums faintly but doesn’t move. John wonders where Mike, Hal and Clara have disappeared to, but doesn’t mind the calm. Despite the cold weather outside, the stable is warm. The feverish horse next to him is like a dark furnace. John decides to wait a little longer and then, if Hal doesn’t show up with his poultice, to pour some water over the stallion to cool him.

As he sits and listens to the animal’s breathing and the faint noises from outside, a thought strikes him, and he digs in the inner pocket of his jacket for his mobile. The internet connection isn’t very good, two bars only, but he manages to draw up the website of the _Daily Mail_ , a publication he usually avoids. After a brief search, he finds the article Clara mentioned. It is dated two days ago, penned by a reporter named Kitty Riley. Featuring a blurry photograph which has obviously been snapped by a passer-by on their mobile phone, it shows a London street with Georgian houses and a café with a red awning, some tables and chairs arranged outside, and next to them a black horse looking stressed and startled and about to bolt, with half a slice of what could be toast hanging from its mouth. The headline reads:

_‘FURY’ STOLE MY TOAST_

_Wild horse terrorises patrons of Baker Street café_

John cannot help letting out a soft laugh. Sherlock’s ears twitch towards him and he opens his eyes again. John holds up his phone to show him the article. “You’ve made headlines, mate,” he tells Sherlock. “Wanna know what they wrote about you?”

Sherlock seems to rouse out of whatever spell of exhaustion or ennui he has sunk into. He shifts again on the floor. To John, it almost looks like he is nodding. He smiles and scoots a little closer to the stallion’s head. “All right, listen: _One should think that a visit to London Zoo in Regent’s Park would by the only wild animal experience walkers in the Park have on a sunny day in Spring. Yesterday, however, joggers and dog-walkers were in for a surprise when an apparently escaped black horse burst out of a thicket and ran across the lawns towards the Baker Street entrance. “He didn’t have any saddle or bridle, nor any other signs of a rider, or even an owner,” remembers Ms. Smithers who was walking her dog at the time and ‘had one hell of a time’ of trying to catch him again because he took off after the horse and chased him. The kerfuffle did not stop there. To hinder the horse from leaving the park and entering into Baker Street traffic, elderly Mr. Hall and his wife closed the gate, but the horse ‘leaped right over it’, recalls terrified Mr. Hall, a former medical doctor, adding that to him the creature seemed really desperate, particular because of the three dogs that were chasing him by that time. Perhaps visitors to the park should remember to keep them on leads._

“Yeah, they bloody should,” commented John. Sherlock made a nodding motion with his head again. John gave him a critical glance, studying the stallion’s legs in particular. “Did any of the dogs nib you? I’d better give you some additional rabies vaccination, too, just to be on the safe side. If all this happened three days ago, that shouldn’t be too late if you indeed caught something from them. Anyway, the article isn’t finished.

_“Inhabitants of Baker Street vividly recall the spooked horse running along the busy road dodging cars and narrowly avoiding accidents. ‘I almost ran him over,’ claims experienced cab driver Jeff Hope. ‘Never seen the like before in all my years on the road.’ The horse only slowed down when it approached Speedy’s Café, a popular venue frequented mostly by local workers and students, who on that morning were in for a surprise. ‘I was having breakfast outside the café when suddenly I heard cars braking and hooting, and then hoofbeats approaching,’ remembers German exchange student Lena. ‘And when I looked up from my laptop, there is this horse standing there next to my table, stealing my toast. I was so shocked that I didn’t even manage to snap a picture. The horse stood for a moment chewing the toast and looking up at the windows above the café, before shaking his mane and dashing off again. I’ve seen many strange things since I arrived in London, but this must have been the weirdest of them all.’ It is difficult to disagree. According to local resident Mrs. Hudson who lives next to the café and, alerted by the commotion on the street when to check, the horse continued down the road and then turned right, towards Paddington. ‘He looked poorly, even though he was a beautiful horse,’ says Mrs. Hudson. She added that she hopes the adventurous equine wasn’t harmed. Enquiries at the Metropolitan Police who were called to the scene should calm the old lady. According to Sergeant S. Donovan of Scotland Yard, the horse was caught and returned to his owner who has asked to remain anonymous. It is to be hoped, however, that he is going to take better precautions to prevent his horse’s escape in the future. As for the stolen toast, the owner of Speedy’s Café was happy to replace it.”_

John shakes his head, whistling softly through his teeth. “You’ve certainly seen some action, haven’t you? No wonder you were stressed and unhappy when you arrived here. Hope the toast was good, at least.”

Sherlock snickers softly at this. John’s eyes narrow as he watches him. There is something about the way Sherlock appears to almost reply to his words that feels increasingly strange to him, uncanny, almost unsettling. But he shrugs it off yet again, deciding at the same time that if Sherlock won’t eat horse-food later today, he’ll organise some toast and try that. Perhaps that’s what he’s used to. One never knows with posh and eccentric owners as Mr. Holmes surely seems to be. He might feed his precious stallion cake only.

 

**- <o>-**

 

A short while later, Hal and Mike return, the former carrying a large, a bag of ice-cubes and bandages, the latter with an IV-drip and two bags of saline solution.

“Sorry it took so long,” apologises Mike. “I had to look after my girls while Clara organised the drip. How’s he doing?”

“He has taken some water, but I’d still like to attach the drip, at least to get one bag into him. The fever seems to have risen slightly, and his breathing is worrying me. I hope he’ll get back on his feet again soon. So far, there’s not been any averse reaction to the antibiotics, no septic or anaphylactic shock. He’s also been conscious and not apathetic, thankfully. In fact, he’s taken active interest in his surroundings. So that’s heartening. I believe he has good chances of recovery, if things don’t take a bad turn during the night. Right. Could you help me up, please, Mike?”

Sherlock doesn’t make any trouble when John and Hal apply the cooling bran poultice to his injured legs and Mike sets a catheter and attach the drip to his vena jugularis externa. Because his temperature hasn’t changed, John slowly pours some water onto Sherlock’s side and over his neck, careful not to wet the bandages they have applied to his sutures.

Clara joins the three men when they are removing their utensils from the stall. “I’ve phoned Mr. Holmes, and he said he’s going to be over later this evening. How long are you going to stay, Mike and John?”

“I’ll have to take the girls back home in an hour or so. They’re dead on their feet already, although they assured me they were fine when I checked on them.”

Clara smiles at this. “They seemed to be holding up well after they’d had cake and cocoa in the kitchen to revive them. I think they’ll last a bit. At the moment, they’re helping to groom the ponies.”

“Good, good,” nods Mike, looking relieved.

“Actually, I can stay on,” John informs them. “I’ve nothing on tonight, and to be honest I’d rather stay here and see how Sherlock’s faring than spend the evening in front of the telly. I can take the train back, if someone drops me off at a station with a working connection.”

“That won’t be a problem, John,” Clara assures him, looking grateful that he’s volunteered to stay.

“I can stay a bit, too,” adds Hal. “The owners of Tequila want to chat about training her later. I have to wait until they’re back, funny geezers that they are.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's art again:  
> 


	3. The Umbrella Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you very much for your feedback. I'm rather blown away by how enthusiastically this story has been received so far.

They arrange for Mike to stay with Sherlock for a bit to make sure he stays calm and doesn’t rip out the catheter, while Hal and John take some nourishment. John who only now remembers his own body’s needs (firstly, for a speedy visit to the toilet) is grateful for the break. So, it turns out, is Hal, who as soon as they leave the building digs out one of his ubiquitous dog ends, lights it with a match and draws a deep, rattling breath, his expression one of pure delight. Clara rolls her eyes at this and gives John a meaningful glance. He shrugs. Each to their own. He’s never cared for cigarettes after one notable encounter with nicotine as a teenager that caused him to spend a night in the bathroom bent over the toilet, and he rarely drinks alcohol (memories of his sister’s excesses a constant warning in the back of his mind). Back in Siberia he did accept the occasional sip of vodka because it helped win the respect of his comrades in arms there, but he refused to share their Chinese cigarettes, or the tobacco they were chewing.

He follows Clara and Hal across the courtyard and into the main house. At its back is a large, cluttered kitchen that doubles as an improvised tea-room and currently houses two families with toddlers playing on a blanket on the floor, colourful wooden farm animals scattered about them. The huge wooden table in the middle of the room must easily seat a dozen people, assumes John. The remains of two cakes stand there, and an assortment of mismatched cups, mugs and plates, as well as a large jug of milk.

After a brief round of hellos, Clara clears away the used plates and mugs and bids the two men to sit down. “Help yourselves to cake if you want, boys,” she invites them. “I’ll get the tea ready.”

John gets himself a slice of carrot cake, then watches in both wonder and amusement when in about the same amount of time, Hal practically inhales a large helping of rich chocolate cake. Noticing John’s eyes on him and his questioningly raised eyebrow, he looks up from his plate. “What?” he asks, his mouth still full.

John smiles. “Nothing. Looks like you’re really hungry.”

Hal grins and shakes his head. “Nah, not hungry as such. It’s the chocolate, you see. For years I wasn’t allowed to touch that stuff. Had to keep my weight. For the job, you see. Now that I’m retired I’ve still got some catching up to do.”

John laughs, and Hal joins in. “How about some carrot cake as well?” asks John. Hal hands him his plate.

As they eat their cake and drink tea, John glances round the kitchen. He recognises some paintings and photographs from the flat Clara once shared with his sister when they were still married. There’s actually a photograph of Harry. He cannot recall having seen it before. It shows her in front of Shaun the Sheep wearing on old jumper, muddy jeans and Wellingtons, and a broad smile. She looks happier and a lot healthier than he remembers. She has gained weight and sports a bit of a tan in the picture, and the sickly, alcohol-induced tinge has left her features. She looks as happy and content as he has ever seen her. Gazing at the photo, he feels a not inconsiderable weight lift off his conscience. Ever since their teenage days and Harry’s coming out, his sister has been a constant source of concern and worry for him. It’s a relief to see that apparently finally she’s managed to get her life back on track.

“She’s going to be over tomorrow,” says Clara who obviously has followed his line of sight. “Do you want me to tell her you’ve been here?”

John hesitates for a moment, then takes a swig of his tea and nods. “Yeah, do that, please. Depending on how things develop with Sherlock, I might come over tomorrow as well. I have an early shift at the clinic, but it’s only until noon.”

“Oh, that’d be great. You can have lunch with us.”

John nods, feeling a prickle of trepidation of meeting his sister again after so long, but decides that this place and Clara’s calm, steady presence might actually be the best option to try and kit the rift between Harry and him.

“That horse, he’s pretty strange,” muses Hal while ladling eye-watering (or rather tooth-melting) amounts of sugar into his second cup of tea. “Never seen the like before. You have a hand with wild creatures, Doc. This one, he hasn’t seen any training in his life. But he’s clever, oh yes. I gets the feeling he sees right through me when he looks at me with those funny eyes of his.”

“Yes, that’s true,” agrees John thoughtfully. Sherlock is certainly unlike any horse he has ever encountered, or any animal, in fact. And to hear the same from Hal who must have spent most of his life among equines only confirms the feeling of ... what? Not unease. Despite his initial wildness and agitation, John’s has never felt threatened by Sherlock. Fascination it is, rather, and a sense that more lies behind Sherlock than meets the eye. “I can’t wait to meet his owner.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The mysterious Mr. Holmes takes his time to show up. There is no sign of him when John, Hal and Clara return to the stables. Most of the visitors to the farm have left by that time. Alicia and her faithful retinue of children are busy in the public part of the stables grooming the ponies, with Alicia calmly instructing the kids what to do. Clara goes to collect Tilda and Annie, both of whom look tired yet happy, straw clinging to their jumpers and caught in their hair, their faces and particularly their hands rather grubby.

“Tell daddy we don’t want to leave yet,” complains Annie. “We still need to brush Tiffany.”

“I’m sure Alicia can do that. Come on, girls. Let’s have a look what your daddy is doing. He’s looking after a sick horse, you see. You must be quiet now so you don’t disturb him.”

“Why is the horse sick?” asks Tilda, looking interested.

“We don’t know yet, but it looks like he’s hurt himself because he tried to run away,” explains John.

As they enter the rear part of the stables, they see a young couple in fashionable riding gear that practically screams money. They are hosing down a slender, long-legged mare with a coppery coat clipped for racing and a white star on her forehead. She tosses up her head as they approach, her nostrils flaring.

“Oh, Mr. Kennet, it’s great you could make it,” the woman greets Hal, who excuses himself from the others. “Keep me informed about lordship, eh?”

“Will do,” promises John as he ushers the two girls along who are staring at the mare in fascination.

“That’s Tequila Sunrise,” explains Clara. “She’s a racehorse.”

“Wow,” says Tilda, looking impressed. Annie giggles. “She looks like she’s wearing funny stockings.”

“That’s because they’ve shorn away the longer hairs of her coat on her torso so that she doesn’t get too hot when she’s running,” John tells her. “They often do that for racehorses.”

“They could clip a picture, too, couldn’t they? Like Hello Kitty,” suggests Annie.

John laughs. “I’m not quite sure that’d serve the purpose.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Mike is waiting for them outside Sherlock’s stall. “No change,” he tells them after greeting his girls. “He didn’t make any trouble. Didn’t stir much, poor thing. I poured some more water over him to cool him, but the fever’s still high. He wouldn’t drink, either.”

John steps over to the bars and studies Sherlock as he lies on his side. Even from a distance he can hear his laboured breathing. “I’d like to give him a rabies jab, just to be on the safe side. I’m not entirely sure that the information is reliable because I got it from the _Daily Mail,_ but apparently he was chased through Regent’s Park by a bunch of dogs, and it’s possible they bit him. His documentation says he’s been vaccinated, and so should the dogs have been, but better safe than sorry, particularly with rabies.” He shrugs. “Apart from that, we’ve done pretty everything we can for him. The rest is up to him.”

Mike nods. “In my estimation, his condition is serious but not critical. I’m somewhat relieved you’re going to be staying, John. If things get very bad, you can call me any time. Now, girls, let’s get ready. Mummy is waiting.”

“Can we see the sick horse, please, daddy?” asks Tilda, straining to gaze through the bars.

“Just a brief look,” says John after exchanging a glance with Mike and Clara. “Don’t step into the box, okay. Just watch him from the doorway. He needs to rest, so you must be quiet and not startle him.”

Both girls nod solemnly. John gets a syringe with the rabies vaccination out of the cooler bag and readies it, and after a critical glance at the IV-bag, fetches the second one as well since the first is almost empty. Clara slides open the door and he steps in, Annie and Tilda cautiously creeping to his sides to look around his legs.

“Oh, he’s a Frisian,” states Tilda, looking impressed.

“He’s like Black Beauty,” says Annie in an awed voice before she takes in the numerous bandages and her face crumbles. She tugs at John’s jacket and looks up at him with large eyes. “You’re gonna make him whole again, won’t you, Doctor John? You and daddy?”

“We’ll do our best, Annie. Now, wait here, I need to give him some more medicine.”

Obediently, the girls wait until John has finished replacing the bag and setting the jab. Sherlock hardly even flinches when the syringe stabs him. John gives his head another gentle, affectionate rub. “We’ll leave you in peace for now, old chap. Get some rest.”

At this, Sherlock opens his eyes and snorts weakly as if in protest. John looks down at him. “Want me to stay, then?” he asks, not entirely seriously.

Sherlock shifts his head slightly on the ground.

“He’s nodding, Doctor John,” comments Annie. “I think he likes you.”

John exchanges another glance with Mike and Clara, then sighs. “Well, if lordship demands it .... Have a good journey home, you three. Thanks for taking me along, Mike. I’ll text you if anything changes.”

“Excellent, cheers, John. Let me know if you need any more medication or equipment. Depending on how busy work gets tomorrow, I might pop round again in the early evening.”

“Oh, can we come, too?” asks Tilda excitedly.

Mike shrugs. “That depends on how quickly you do your homework. See you, John, Clara. Oh, and Sherlock. Don’t give Johnny here any trouble, you hear.”

With that, he picks up his bag with one hand and clasps Annie’s hand with the other, and together the three set out.

John hears Annie’s excited voice recede down the corridor. “Did you see his feather, daddy. It was all over his legs.”

Clara gets the cooler bag. “I’ll just put the rest of the medication back in the fridge. Here’s my number.” She hands him the business card of **Sunny Meadows** that features her mobile and landline numbers as well as her email-address.

“Text me or phone if you need anything. I have to check with Alicia and the others how far they’ve come with feeding and getting our preciouses back indoors, those that don’t stay outside. You’ll be all right here?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks, Clara,” John assures her.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Soon, John is left to his own devices, and he appreciates the solitude. Hal is still busy with the owners of Tequila Sunrise who, incidentally, look exactly the way John imagined them to look, down to the leather riding boots and the fashionable outerwear, to the pearl earrings of the woman and the coiffured, carefully arranged waves of the man’s hair and his ten grand wristwatch. John rolls his eyes as he sees one of them carry the monogrammed horse blanket into Tequila’s stall. He, too, sets out in search of a blanket which he finds in the tack room that also housed the first aid kit. It a lot less grand than Tequila’s and a bit dusty, but it’ll suffice. He carries it back into Sherlock’s stall and spreads it on the ground next to the door, which he slides to.

Sherlock stirs slightly and opens his eyes when John lowers himself onto the blanket. “Nothing to worry about, Sherlock,” he soothes the horse. “Just going to watch over you so that you won’t rip out the catheter. Want to try some more water?”

The cup is still there and half full, and John scrambles forward to reach Sherlock’s muzzle. To his relief, the stallion licks away some more water when carefully John ladles it over his mouth. John fetches two more mugs and their contents, too, disappear down the horse’s throat until Sherlock refuses to take in any more.

“Good boy,” John praises him, rubbing his muzzle encouragingly. “We’re going to see this through, you’ll see.” He is about to scoot backwards to the able to lean against the sidewall, when he feels Sherlock’s head nudge his leg.

“More water?” he asks. Sherlock snorts. John frowns.

“More petting?” he enquires tentatively.

A nod. John’s frown deepens. “This is getting a bit creepy, you know that, right? Perhaps my brain is messed up beyond pretending that I have a dodgy leg, but I increasingly get the impression that you understand me.”

There is a pause, and then Sherlock moves his head again in what to John looks like a definite nod.

John gives a nervous laugh at this. “You’re trying to convince me that you’re some kind of wonder horse that understands human speech, right? God, I wonder what they put in that carrot cake, or the tea.”

Sherlock snorts again and John shakes his head, laughing. “Come on, you shall have your petting if that helps you get well again. Care for some music, too?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at this and he seems to rouse even more, looking definitely interested. Carefully, John scoots closer on the blanket before carefully putting his hands under Sherlock’s head and lifting it and setting it down on his outstretched legs. Sherlock doesn’t resist. Perhaps it’s his exhaustion, or else he has finally decided that John has his best interest in mind and that it’s only sensible to cooperate. He snickers softly, shifts his head around a little so that it lies comfortably, before looking at John expectantly, having to screw up his eyes to be able to do so.

Fighting down another stab of keen wonder and bewilderment, John digs out his mobile, switches it on and swishes around a bit until he’s found the music player. He puts it on shuffle, tunes down the volume a little, and begins to comb Sherlock’s mane to the first notes of the Beatles.

Sherlock doesn’t complain about the rather eclectic mix of music that lives on John’s phone. Even though his eyes are closed, his ears twitch in tune with the beat of the faster pieces, and now and again he utters a low snicker which to John sounds strangely content and peaceful. Sherlock rouses slightly when Apocalyptica is on, looking alert and curiously interested, then calms down again when, in harsh contrast, the gentle, haunting theme of the Force from _Star Wars_ plays.

After a while, John begins to scroll through his emails (mostly spam, which he deletes), before checking the TFL website for train connections in the evening. With the bright screen in front of him he barely notices how slowly, dusk creeps into the stable, swallowing up Sherlock’s dark body until someone switches on the overhead lamps. John looks up in surprise that apparently so much time has passed, although the battery of his phone is low by now, and the watch tells him that seven pm is approaching. His stomach gives a rumble, which Sherlock seems to find interesting because he snickers softly again.

John has an idea, and dials Clara’s number. She picks up presently. “Can I interest you in some supper, John?” she asks.

“That’s why I’m calling. I won’t need much.”

“Sandwich and tea all right?”

“Sure, perfect. Oh, and could you bring some plain toast, too?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks a lot.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Not long, and Clara arrives with a small tray. Her face betrays her surprise as he sees John’s and Sherlock’s seating and resting arrangement.

“Goodness, look at you two. It’s difficult to believe that this is the same horse that took apart this stall yesterday and almost gave Hal a nice dent in his skull. Well done, John. I assume the toast is for lordship here, right?”

John smiles. “Yeah, I’d like to try feeding it to him.” He makes to get to his feet, but Clara waves a hand. “Don’t bother. Here’s your tea and some sandwiches, and here’s the toast. Whole grain. Should be good for him.”

She grins and pulls the door to again. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

John sips his tea before taking a bite of a tuna sandwich. He then breaks off a corner of a slice of toast and holds it in front of Sherlock’s muzzle so he can sniff it. Sherlock screws up his eyes to look at him, before letting out a deep, almost exasperated breath and carefully takes the morsel out of John’s fingers.

John smiles. “Hey, hey, good boy. Knew you were hungry. Here, have some more.” Bit by bit, he feeds the slice of bread to Sherlock who, after the first few bites seems to actually regain his appetite, eating with increasing enthusiasm. John pats his neck appreciatively and begins to break up the second slice, which Sherlock eats as well.

“Want the apple, too?” asks John when most of the toast is gone, holding up the fruit. Sherlock nods and takes it out of John’s hand.

John watches him chew, not minding the juice dribbling over his jeans, and smiles. “Bravo. Want me to ring Clara for more fancy food? Since you seem to consider hay and oats and even horse treats below you?”

“You might want to try these, Dr. Watson,” a clipped voice announces from the doorway, the intonation measured and precise with an unmistakable air of subtle command.

Surprisedly, John turns his head in the direction of the voice, his eyes taking in a pair of Oxfords polished within an inch of their life and retaining their shine despite the dust and muck of the stables, to a pair of pinstriped trousers under a pinstriped suit jacket that screams Savile Row in the way it swathes its owner like a second skin, and a waistcoat resplendent with a watch-chain (who the hell still wears watches on chains anymore?), to a moderately patterned silk tie, above which sits an aristocratic, stern face with a slightly hooked nose and thin, curved eyebrows under a carefully arranged lock of dark hair that is receding from the forehead. In his right hand the man is holding a black, furled umbrella, the tip of which is resting next too his immaculate shoes, in the other he carries a bag of oatmeal biscuits.

John swallows. There is no doubt who the man is. Clara’s description of him is fitting. He does indeed look like John Steed (sans bowler hat) or Harry Hart (sans glasses). There is, however, nothing ridiculous about him. He has an air of deadly seriousness, and indeed deadliness about him that make John wonder what weapons might be concealed in his umbrella, or if he even needs them, being able to silence and disappear any enemies with a nod of his head and a tiny gesture of his hand.

“Mr. Holmes, I presume,” he says, trying to sound calmer than he feels. He isn’t even astonished that the man knows who he is, although he assumes Clara might have mentioned him. Sherlock shakes his head slightly and gives a disapproving snort, not looking at the newcomer.

“Quite right, Doctor Watson. Mrs. Williams informed me that Sherlock has been ... troublesome.” Sherlock snorts again upon which Mr. Holmes raises an eyebrow but apparently decides not to comment. “I am, however, pleased to note that you seem to have had some success in treating and even feeding him. Commendable.”

He steps into the stall and hands the bag of biscuits to John. “Should he refuse food again, try these. He used to like them as a ... when he was younger.”

Carefully, John shifts his legs from under Sherlock’s head so that it comes to rest on the blanket, and struggles to his feet, brushing toast crumbs and apple juice from his trousers and feeling rather dishevelled and grubby opposite Mr. Holmes’ groomed appearance.

“Actually, I was wondering about his age,” says John, drawing himself up slightly because the keen, searching glance of the other makes him want to cringe and hide. He feels like he is being x-rayed. He sticks out his chin defiantly, his hands clenching at his sides.

“I’ve had a look at his papers, and his date of birth seems incorrect. If he was really born in the late 1970s, he’d be remarkably old for a horse.”

Mr. Holmes inclines his head slightly. “Oh no, Dr. Watson, I can assure you that the date is quite correct.”

John looks down at Sherlock who has shut his eyes and has curled in slightly on himself which, John thinks with a stab of wry amusement, almost looks like a child indulging in an epic sulk.

“But by all evidence he is not an old horse,” objects John. “There are no obvious signs of age.”

Mr. Holmes gives him another long, piercing look. “The longer you treat him and spend time in his company, Dr. Watson, the more you will realise that Sherlock is a most unique horse, unlike any other you have ever encountered before, and likely every shall.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up at this. “What’s he, then?” he demands sharply “A genetic experiment? Dolly the Sheep in horse shape?” John has rather strict views on animal experiments, and has endured many a confrontation with colleagues in the past over the subject.

Mr. Holmes regards him and his bout of repressed anger with a wry expression. “I am afraid that this information is classified.”

Now John does get angry. “Classified? Is that so? Listen, I’m trying to save his life here, because he’s seriously ill and by the looks of it has experienced some major trauma, and unless I know exactly what’s wrong with him and how I should and shouldn’t treat him, there’s a danger that he won’t survive the next couple of days. I doubt it’d be in your interest if he perishes from infection because his wounds turn septic, or anaphylactic shock because I unknowingly administered some antibiotics or other stuff he’s allergic to. I’m his doctor, okay, accidentally, perhaps, but he’s my patient now, and I want to help him, and I need your cooperation to do so, and not some bloody talk about things being ‘classified’.”

Mr. Holmes’ face betrays no emotion after John’s little speech. He holds his gaze for a while while John stands stiffly and defiantly, until he breaks the connection (which John books as a victory) and his eyes shift down to Sherlock. John looks at the horse as well, and for a brief moment he has the distinct impression that corners of Sherlock’s mouth are twitching as if he’s trying to smile. Then he scolds himself an idiot because horses don’t smile.

Mr. Holmes cocks an eyebrow slightly as the studies his horse. “Really, Sherlock?” he mutters. Then he fixed his gaze on John again. “I am completely _d’accord_ with your professional assessment and your desire for full disclosure, and since I also have my horse’s best interests at heart I will reveal to you what you need to know in order to treat him successfully. However, you must be aware, Dr. Watson, that there are aspects of Sherlock’s ... let us call it medical history that I am not yet at liberty to reveal. Doubtless, they will become clear to you in time, if you pay attention as you continue to look after him. For now, would you be so kind as to give me an update on his status?”

John glares at him. He doesn’t like all this talk about “medical history“, because whatever that includes, it wasn’t mentioned in the documentation he read. He cannot help seeing Sherlock as some genetically engineered prototype of a super horse with near-human intelligence and who knows what other features hidden under the dark coat or behind those remarkable eyes. He draws a breath, licks his lips, fights down the temptation to take down creepy Mr. Holmes with a sharp retort, and ultimately deflates to gruffly give Mycroft (seriously, how messed up must parents be to name their child ‘Mycroft’, although this fellow absolutely looks like one, and moreover he comes over as less creepy if one thinks of him as a posh chap with a rather ridiculous name) a thorough account of what he observed of Sherlock’s state and what measurements have been undertaken to stabilise him.

When he has finished, Mr. Holmes looks at him with what John assumes goes for approval in his impassive face. “Well done, Dr. Watson. Indeed, very well done. I take it you informed yourself about Sherlock’s little ... adventure in Regent’s Park? He didn’t do well at his former abode, and we thought it wise to bring him somewhere less busy where he could acclimatise and recuperate in peace. Both things, however, require not only expert accommodation and medical treatment, but also his cooperation.” He gives Sherlock a stern glance which the horse ignores.

John has the distinct impression that he is not the only one who communicates with Sherlock like he understands human speech. Mr. Holmes, too, for all his correctness and aloofness appears to do so as well (and Sherlock resents it). _Classified indeed,_ thinks John, and scoffs.

“Dr. Watson, given that you seem to have achieved the almost impossible and managed to calm down Sherlock and even humour him into partaking of food and water, I would like to offer you the position of his responsible medical practitioner. God knows he’s not been on friendly terms with anybody else who tried to even approach him, including, I have to admit, myself.”

“You want me to be his doctor?” John translates what in his mind he’s termed ‘Mycroft-speak’ into comprehensible English.

“Indeed I do.”

“I already have a job.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Mr. Holmes withdraws a small, leather-bound notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket and flips open a page. “John Hamish Watson, veterinary surgeon, graduated from RVC in 1997, PhD in 2001, formerly employed by the Wildlife Alliance, Greenpeace, IFAW and most recently the World Wildlife Fund in one of their tiger reservations in Siberia, Amur-Heilong to be precise. Unmarried, without any romantic connections or interests at the moment, estranged family, younger sister a recovering alcoholic previously married to Mrs. Clara Williams, owner of this establishment. Currently, you are doing locum work at Camberwell RSPC Hospital, a rather inconvenient location as it includes a stressful commute from your flat in Brixton despite its relative proximity to said location. You used to play football and rugby at school and university, but recently haven’t done any sports because of the gun-shot wound your received in Russia and the resulting psychological trauma that affects your right leg but which you tend to forget about when you are under duress, because right now you stand with your legs apart without favouring your ... I think the expression is ‘dodgy’ one. Did I miss anything?”

John stares at him in shock. This is taking creepiness to whole new levels. “Who are you? How do you know all this?” he asks, his voice rough.

Mr. Holmes closes the notebook and returns it to his pocket. “The latter is irrelevant. As for the former, let’s just say that occupy a minor position in the British Government.”

Sherlock gives a loud snort at this and paws the ground with his right forehoof.

“It seems that your horse disagrees,” muses John.

“Yes,” says Mr. Holmes. “He’s always been rather ... contrary and difficult. Anyway, do consider my offer, Dr. Watson. That locum job in Camberwell must be excruciatingly boring for a man of your background, talents and inclination. And boredom, that much I can assure you, you won’t suffer if you look after Sherlock. Your time and efforts would of course be adequately recompensed”

“I don’t want your money,” returns John stiffly. He hates being overrun like this, and the fact that Sherlock’s owner seems to have his entire life-story on file is more than worrying. Big brother is watching you, indeed. On the other hand he is intrigued. More than that, he is hooked. He wants to look after Sherlock, wants to find out what’s so unique about him. Also, he has to admit that even after this short time, he has come to like the horse who certainly has a distinct character of his own, and a fascinating one at that. And the promise of danger and excitement ... fuck it, it’s more than tempting. Also, if he’s honest, is the money. He hates his dull little bedsit in Brixton, but it’s all he can afford, narrowly, with the money he is earning at the moment. A little boost would certainly not go amiss.

“Well, in that case arrangements can be made that at least your travelling expenses are covered, as is Sherlock’s medication. Also, a meaningful sum will be donated to this animal shelter and any wildlife organisations of your choosing.”

John glares at Mr. Holmes. Damn it, the man knows how to play people. Minor position indeed. Likely, he’s the head of bloody MI5 or MI6. Isn’t the latter called ‘M’ in the James Bond stories? John can vividly imagine him sitting behind a heavy oak desk with a red telephone on it and a porcelain bulldog with a Union Jack pattern, and a large portrait of the Queen behind him on the wall.

He draws a deep breath. “Let me think about it until tomorrow,” he says, trying to salvage at least a shred of defiance and the faintest pretence of acting under free will.

“Absolutely, Dr. Watson. Do take your time.”

“I intend to,” returns John gruffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to unhook the bag from Sherlock’s IV-drip and check his temperature again.”

Mr. Holmes takes the dismissal for what it is. Delicately, he stoops and places the biscuits onto the blanket in Sherlock’s line of sight. The stallion snorts at them derisively, then shifts to he can observe John’s actions. To his relief, John notes that the horse’s temperature has dropped slightly. Carefully, he removes the catheter and disinfects the small wound. “I think we can do without another bag tonight,” he tells the stallion quietly, patting his neck.

“Remarkable,” mutters Mr. Holmes softly.

John turns to him and frowns. “What is?”

“Oh, the simple fact that Sherlock suffers your touch. He has always been rather reluctant to let people handle him, and certainly never sought out human company for it’s own sake. Or his. As a ... foal, his best and only friend was a dog. He rarely spent time around others of his kind and age. I think that speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“Such friendships are not unheard of,” replies John, feeling the strange urge to defend Sherlock against his overbearing owner.

“Certainly not, Dr. Watson. Although in Sherlock’s case, let me assure you that it was an exception to the rule. Will he require a watch tonight?”

John gives Sherlock a critical once-over. “I don’t think so. His condition has improved from this afternoon, at least with regards to his fever. His breathing is less laboured, too, which is good. He mustn’t lie on his side for too long. Tomorrow he’ll hopefully manage to get back on his feet again. I’ll replace the poultice on his legs before I leave and give him another dose of antibiotics, and he should be fine for tonight.”

Mr. Holmes nods gravely. “Very well. I will leave you to your tasks then and discuss a few matters with Mrs. Williams. Do see me before you leave.”

John makes a noncommittal sound at which Mr. Holmes cocks an eyebrow again, as if to say were John to try and sneak past him, he’ll have him retrieved by his agents. He doesn’t look up but instead smoothes the hairs over the spot where the catheter broke the skin until he hears the measured footsteps and soft click of the umbrella recede.

Letting out a long breath, he gazes at Sherlock who has been watching him quietly. “Now that’s what I call a creep, your owner. No wonder your tried to run away. But none of that tonight, okay? I’ll be back in a moment with more meds, and I’ll come tomorrow as well.”

Ruffling Sherlock’s forelock, he straightens and leaves the stall, closing and locking the door behind him.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock is actually asleep when he returns shortly afterwards with more bran for a change of poultice and another syringe with penicillin, and he doesn’t wake during John’s ministrations. Only when the doctor is about to leave one of the eyes slides open and Sherlock gives a soft snicker.

“See you tomorrow, Sherlock,” says John gently. “Clara will check on you later.”

With another glance at the resting horse, John feels a deep satisfaction that he sometimes experiences when he believes that he has actually been able to do some good. With a small smile, he leaves the stall.

It’s fully dark outside when he steps out of the stables. The courtyard is empty but for a sleek black car parked right in the middle of it. Clara was right, it is a Jaguar. _Well,_ reasons John, _one cannot expect a man like Mycroft Holmes to get carted around in a Volkswagen Beetle, right?_

A dark figure only illuminated by the glow of a mobile phone is waiting next to the vehicle. Despite the fresh evening air and the rather cold wind, she doesn’t wear a coat, only a pin-striped costume of slender trousers and a jacket that accentuates her curvy frame, as well as lethal-looking heels. She must be Mr. Holmes’ assistant. John agrees with Clara’s estimate that she is rather gorgeous. Like Mr. Holmes, however, she radiates an air of aloofness, and indeed subtle threat. John assumes she is far more than a PA. If he had to guess, he’d upgrade her to body-guard and second-in-command.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes will be with you presently,” she greets him without looking up from her phone. “You may already take a seat. The air is cold tonight.” She indicates the back seat of the car.

John frowns. “Who says I’m going with you?” he asks, once more feeling like someone has pulled the rug from under his feet and is making decisions about his future without asking his consent.

The woman gives him a beady glance before busying herself with her mobile again. “You need a lift to the station, Mrs. Williams is busy and it would be an inconvenience for her to take you. Moreover, Mr. Holmes wishes to discuss some more matters with you. A win-win situation, don’t you think?”

“Not for me,” grumbles John. “I could always call a cab. Or walk.” At this, he feels a stab in his right leg, causing him to shift his weight onto his left and leaning more heavily on his stick.

“Suit yourself,” says the woman. “It’s about a mile to Putney Station, one and a half to Barnes, and two and a half to Earlsfield since the District Line is still suspended and you cannot, therefore, use the Underground.”

John sighs. “All right. I get your point. But I’m going to wait out here until your boss shows up. What’s your name, anyway, since you people seem to know everything about me? Would be nice to at least know whom I’m talking to.”

“Anthea,” she replies.

“Is that your real name?” asks John, stepping over to her.

She smiles. “Of course not.”

John nods grimly. “I feel like I’m caught in some weird James Bond movie. Or a parody of one, rather. Is that a real phone, at least, or some powerful device to control all networks in the UK or some such thing?”

Anthea laughs at this and holds the phone out to him. It’s a rather outdated Blackberry, and certainly doesn’t look like a Doomsday device, particularly because she has been playing _Candy Crush_ on it.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John is still laughing when the door of the main house opens and Mr. Holmes steps out, followed by Clara who looks rather excited and gives John an enthusiastic thumbs-up behind his back. Apparently Sherlock’s owner has been true to his word and made a substantial donation.

Mr. Holmes shakes her hand. “Let me know if you require more, and keep me informed about the patient.” She thanks him again, then waves to John. “I’ll text you if there’s any change of his condition tonight. I usually do a round through the stables after midnight, and I’ll check on him. See you tomorrow, John, and thanks for everything.”

“No problem,” replies John. Anthea has already gotten into the driver’s seat. With a defeated sigh, John takes a seat in the back, with Mr. Holmes joining him.

For a while, they ride in silence, and John wonders what the other wants to discuss with him. He still hasn’t agreed to the offer, although everybody seems to assume that he will. Mr. Holmes is gazing out of the darkened window at the scattered streetlights and illuminated windows of rows and rows of semidetached houses. Up close, John thinks that he has lost some of his carefully maintained aloofness. He looks tired and worried, and John feels the sudden desire to reassure him.

“I’m convinced Sherlock will make a full recovery. You may not be able to ride or work him for a while to prevent lameness, but he should be fine. Unless unforeseen complications arise, I expect him to be up on his feet tomorrow.”

Mr. Holmes gives a small nod at this, and only after he turns to gaze at John. “Perhaps I have not expressed my gratitude convincingly back at the stable, but I am relieved that he is finally looked after by some skilled if somewhat unconventional professional.”

“Well, I’m not an expert on horses,” puts in John, but Mr. Holmes raises a hand to interrupt him.

“Perhaps not, but you do have the medical knowledge required, and moreover you have what many specialists lack: you care deeply about the creatures you treat, and not just because they are of monetary value for people such as one might consider this horse to be. No, you care about them for their own sake. And I believe Sherlock noticed that and therefore came to trust you. He wouldn’t even let the other doctors touch him, even after he was sedated. You must know, Dr. Watson, that he has experienced a lot of change and upheaval recently, and will need some more time to acclimatise to his new situation.”

“You can’t tell me anything about what exactly happened to him?” asks John doubtfully.

Mr. Holmes shakes his head. “Not yet. Some matters are still being investigated.”

John nods, gazing out of the window. “Just tell me one thing. He isn’t some kind of crazy experiment, is he?”

Mr. Holmes gives him a long, level glance. “Oh no, Dr. Watson, he was conceived and reared in a perfectly normal way. If you must know, he has been in our family his entire life, and my parents love him dearly and would be devastated if anything bad befell him. In fact, they have not yet been informed of his recent ... condition, and I would prefer not having to worry them.”

John watches him. “And what about yourself?” he asks shrewdly, feeling rather bold. “Would you be devastated as well?” He finds it difficult to believe that a cold fish like Mr. Holmes cares about anybody.

But the man sighs, twirling the handle of his umbrella. “I worry about him constantly, and have done so ever since he was born,” he states quietly.

John nods again, biting his lip. He recognises the look on Mr. Holmes’ face. He’s seen it in his own eyes often enough when he looked into a mirror after he’d had another fruitless, confrontational talk with his sister, or, worse, had to witness her harming herself, their parents, and Clara, with him standing by, powerless. And here’s Mr. Holmes, who likely can start World War Three with a nod of his head and a quiet word, worrying about some old horse of his. Sentiment, that’s what it is. Nobody’s immune, no matter how hard they try.

He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “All right,” he says heavily. “I’m in. But as soon as you can, as soon as it’s no longer ‘classified’, you’ll tell me what’s up with your horse.”

Mr. Holmes studies him evenly. “Most certainly, Dr. Watson.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art again:  
> 


	4. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the wonderful feedback and encouragement, it's greatly appreciated. You may have noticed that the chapter count went up by one, because I decided to divide this chapter as it was getting rather long. The illustrations for chapters 5 and 6 are already done, now I just have to write them. Hope RL will let me.

John nods off on the train back into London and almost misses getting off the train. One of his fellow passengers rouses him. The hustle and bustle at Victoria Station where he changes onto the Victoria Line, and the brief walk from the Brixton Tube station to his tiny flat revive him somewhat, although by the time he’s climbed up the stairs he feels altogether knackered. Yawning and limping, he drags himself over the threshold. After the warm stables smelling of hay and horse, Clara’s chaotic yet homely kitchen and the bustle of public transport, the small bedsit with its beige walls, beige curtains and nondescript, functional furniture looks like a prison cell, and the air smells stale and dead, even more so than on the Tube which means something. John limps over to the single window and tears it open, letting in a rush of cold air, the smell of Ogu’s kebab place below, and the sound of police sirens on the nearby High Street.

Deliberating whether he can muster the energy to shower or do that tomorrow morning, John runs a hand through his hair, and laughs softly when some stalks of hay fall out.  _ Better shower tonight, then, _ he thinks.

A short while later, he steps out of the minuscule bathroom towelling his hair, to hear his mobile ping from his bedside table where he has plucked it in to charge. It’s a text from Clara.

_Hi John, just checked on our special patient, and he was sleeping peacefully. Temp. is down yet again, breathing sounded okay. Oh, and he somehow managed to tear open the biscuit bag and eat half the contents. That’s a weird horse and no mistake. See you tomorrow, take care. Clara X_

John smiles and quickly texts back,

_ Thanks for the update, Clara. You take care, too. I’ll try and get off work early tomorrow. Shouldn’t be a problem as it’s Sunday. I’ll also ask if they’re gonna need me at all next week. See you, John _ .

After making himself a cup of tea, John, his weariness no longer as acute after his shower as on the train, begins to sort through the boxes he keeps under his bed and which contain his old university notes and textbooks. He selects anything he can find about equine physiology and psychology, as well as publications about ailments of horses, and spends the next two hours immersed in the books until he can barely keep his eyes open any longer. He empties his cold tea, brushes his teeth and falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow.

He dreams a lot of strange things, such as Mr. Holmes descending with his umbrella, Mary Poppins style, from London Eye, and a lot of stuff about various animals he can only partly remember in the morning. He also dreams of Sherlock, this he  _ can  _ recall clearly, of his strange light-coloured, gold-speckled eyes. In his dream, however, they don’t belong to a horse but a human. John cannot see him clearly, the figure shifts in and out of sight, flickering like a mirage. “Pay attention, John,” it says, the voice a whisper like wind in reeds and rushes. “The solution is obvious. Look closely, John. You have to observe and not just see.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The dream is cut short by the sound of John’s mobile. Not the alarm, he’s got another half hour to go until he has to get up. It’s another text message. With a stab of anxiety, John opens it.

_Morning, John, Clara here. I’ve just had a look at Sherlock. The idiot has managed to rip off one of his bandages, the one from his foreleg. No additional damage done, by the looks of it, though. He looks more alert this morning, but is still lying on his side. What time can you come over?_

John sighs and shakes his head.  _ Stupid horse, _ he thinks.  _ But at least he survived the night.  _ Quickly, he texts back, 

_I’ll try and be there by noon. Could you fetch me from Putney Station? District Line is still down. John_

_Yeah, sure, just let me know what time. Hal will come in at 10 and we may try and replace the poultice. Want us to give him another penicillin jab?_

_No, that can wait until I’m there. Try and get him to drink something. Has he eaten the rest of the biscuits?_

_Yes. If you see any on your way, bring a few bags. It’s not exactly proper food for a horse, but at the moment I’m happy if he eats anything._

_Okay, see you later. J_

 

**- <o>-**

 

Even though it’s Sunday and the commute to Camberwell far less busy and nerve-wracking than under the week, his fellow passengers are still get on John’s nerves. The pet owners at the clinic are little better. He’s itching to be gone and see how Sherlock is faring, and after he’s vaccinated three cats against feline leukemia and deflead a dog and a pet ferret, as well as treating the teeth and claws of two rabbits and one guinea pig, he’s more than ready to leave.

Luckily, Sarah, his boss, grants him leave when he tells her that a friend’s horse is in a critical condition and that he will be required to look after it for the rest of the week.

“Call me if you drown in sick cats and dogs,” John tells her.

“Of if Stuart finds another litter of kittens in a recycling bin,” he asks with a wink and a smile.

“Or that.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Before he boards the train to Putney pops into a nearby Tesco and buys four bags of oatmeal digestives for Sherlock, and a bottle of water and a chocolate flapjack for himself. On the train, he texts Clara his approximate arrival time, then spends the rest of the journey reading online veterinary journals on horse care and training on his phone.

Clara is already waiting for him in the station forecourt, waving at him out of the window of her old red VW Passat. John deposits the plastic bag with the biscuits and the rucksack containing his medical instruments as well as some medication he acquired from the clinic (with the bill addressed to Mycroft Holmes) on the back seat, then climbs in next to Clara.

“Hal has been round to have a look at him,” she informs him. “He put on a new poultice and found that the swelling has receded, particularly in the foreleg. Sherlock managed to raise his head far enough to drink from the bucket when I put it next to him, and he ate the rest of the biscuits, like I said before. He really seems to like those. Good thing you went shopping. He didn’t touch any normal horse food, though. Bloody snob.”

“Yeah, he’s a special little snowflake, our Sherlock,” says John. Clara laughs.

“Snowflake? Sootflake, rather,” she corrects him, which causes John to laugh as well.

 

**- <o>-**

 

As soon as they reach Sunny Meadows which is again teaming with visitors, after a brief deliberation whether to fetch the antibiotics from the fridge first and deciding to get them later, John sets out in the direction of the horse stable. In the paddock, Alicia is exercising the dapple-grey Andalusian, Gonzo. John stops briefly to watch them do some rather demanding dressage figures, to loud applause from a rapt audience behind the fence. Alicia seems a competent horsewoman, and Gonzo apparently remembers his training as a film-horse. Together, they create a stunning display.

Smiling, John walks on, wondering how Sherlock might fare under the saddle. Likely he’d throw his rider after ten seconds, leap over the fence and dash off into the blue. Mr. Holmes has been strangely oblique about what exactly Sherlock’s purpose is apart from a beloved family pet. He seems a bit too large and expensive in his upkeep for that, even though Mr. Holmes certainly doesn’t appear to suffer from shortage of funds. Still, for a proper pet, Sherlock rather lacks in the cuddliness department – or does he? Despite everything his owner has said about him, including his strange and seemingly unique friendship with a dog (and nobody else), Sherlock not only tolerates John’s touch but appears to actively seek it out, like a cat that demands to be petted. But then, John reasons, this is what a bit of kindness and care does to many animals. Sherlock’s owner doesn’t strike him as someone who’d sit with him and talk to him, or play him music, or indeed show affection in any obvious way. Come to think of it, he didn’t even approach to touch him.

Unconsciously, John lengthens his strides as he continues through the stable, only to realise when he reaches the partition that he is barely limping anymore, and has hardly used the stick for support ever since he left Clara’s car. He gives his cane a questioning glance, and then grins broadly and walks on.

Tequila Sunrise eyes him warily as he passes her stall, her large eyes trained on him. Somebody has braided her mane and brushed her coat to a coppery shine. Apparently her owners have plans for another outing today, although the couple is nowhere to be seen.

John feels his heart beat faster as he approaches Sherlock’s stall, wondering what he is going to find there. Stepping up to the bars, he draws a deep breath. Sherlock is no longer lying on his side, which eases John’s worries greatly because in his current position with his legs arranged partly under him and his head bowed, the dangerous pressure on the stallion’s lungs has diminished. He appears to be dozing. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but his ears flick in John’s direction and his nostrils flare gently to take in his scent. He looks better than the previous day, decides John. His coat could certainly do with a thorough brushing, but the feverish sheen has left it. Someone, likely Hal when he replaced the poultice on Sherlock’s hind leg, seems to have given him a another wash and rub down. The blood matting his coat is completely gone, and the bandages covering the stitches look clean although John doubts they have been changed. The bandage and poultice from the foreleg are missing, and even from a distance John can see that the swelling of the joint has lessened considerably, and the abrasion has scabbed over. The leg is bent, and by all appearances is no longer hurting Sherlock, meaning that there was no lasting damage to the joint or tendons. Sherlock’s breathing seems normal, too, deep and even. He looks like a resting horse instead of one on the bring of septic shock as he did the previous day. Seeing him like this, John feels warmth steal through him like it often does when he realises that he managed to help or even save a sick or injured creature.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John greets him, smiling as he unlocks the door.

Sherlock snorts softly but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him.

John shakes his head as he surveys the resting horse and begins to divest himself of rucksack, plastic bag, walking stick and finally his jacket and leaving everything next to the door inside the stall. “I hope you’re just too lazy to raise your head, because you look much better than yesterday. Here, let me check your temperature.”

Carefully, he approaches. Sherlock snorts again, and it almost sounds like exasperation. John notices as he draws closer that Sherlock’s pupils are moving rapidly under his closed eyelids as if he’s having a REM dream (John doesn’t know whether horses even have such a phase during their sleep, especially because Sherlock’s position is not that of a horse truly, deeply sleeping, but merely the one they assume when they are resting).  _ Perhaps, _ John muses with a smile,  _ he is engaged in some strenuous thinking, given how intelligent he came across yesterday. _

“Yeah, yeah, I know, doctors are such bloody nuisances,” he chuckles. “Tell you what, the more you play nice and cooperate, the sooner you’ll be rid of me. So, be a good boy and let me see how you fared throughout the night.”

Sherlock snorts again.

With a soft groan, John kneels down at his side and runs a hand along his neck. A shiver runs through Sherlock and finally, he stirs, opening his eyes and turning his head briskly to gaze at John, looking curiously bewildered for a moment as if he’s having trouble getting his eyes to focus. John wonders whether there’s anything wrong with his sight because he should have been able to see him without having to actually turn his head. It almost seems as if for a moment, Sherlock forgot about his side vision, and was surprised by his own visual abilities.

John laughs and reaches out to ruffle his forelock. “Afternoon, sleepy head. Had a nice dream, or did you engage in some deep thinking about Quantum Theory or the upcoming General Election?”

Sherlock snorts again, looking, thinks John, a little affronted. He nudges John’s shoulder with his head, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Hey, what was that about?” complains John. “Physics and politics not your thing, eh?” he teases while running his hands along Sherlock’s injured foreleg and noticing to his relief that the joint’s temperature feels normal and that there appears to have developed no infection from the scrape. Sherlock’s overall body temperature has returned to normal, which is a very good sign, too.

To his surprise, Sherlock shakes his head at his last statement, which causes John to still his movements and gaze at the horse questioningly. Once again the unsettling feeling that somehow, Sherlock can understand what he’s saying creeps up, even stronger than before. He recalls his meeting with Mr. Holmes and his cryptic words concerning Sherlock’s past.

Settling back on his haunches, John lets out a long breath as he regards the Frisian curiously, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Sherlock returns his gaze steadily. John licks his lips. He might be completely round the bend now, but he feels he has to ask.

“Sherlock ... er ... do you ... Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Sherlock looks at him, his light blue-grey eyes with the golden speck fixed on John’s dark blue ones. John feels his heart beat faster; he realises that he has stopped breathing and draws in a ragged breath. His eyes not leaving John’s, very slowly and deliberately, Sherlock inclines his head.

John stares at him, his mind rattling with possibilities. Coincidence, or reply? Is he seeing things? Is his imagination playing tricks on him? Are his mind and body playing up? He hasn’t eaten nor drunk enough today and likely is dehydrated and hypoglycaemic. Tired, too. It could be all of these things. Or ... or has Sherlock just indicated that yes, he does understand human speech? Or can read thoughts? Whatever.

“Fancy seeing you here, Johnny boy,” a voice John hasn’t heard for some times interrupts the tense silence. Sherlock’s head jerks up and he regards the newcomer through the bars, his features alert. John lets out a long breath to fortify himself, not sure whether to thank his sister for the interruption or not. He would have preferred not having to meet her just yet, but then again it might be best to get things over with and finally talk. The cold war and unresolved tension between them has lasted too long, for both sides.

Biting his lip and bracing himself against the stab in his knee as he stands, “Hello, Harry,” he greets her, turning round to look at her.

She stands leaning against the half-open door, her hands crossed over her chest, studying him from head to toe. When she has looked her fill, she cocks her head. “Mum said you were away again somewhere getting shot at,” she says at length, speaking calmly but not overly warmly. “What brings you back to Blighty?”

John shrugs. “I got shot,” he replies evenly, trying not to come across too curt and dismissive. This is about making peace, or at least negotiate a truce.

She nods slowly, not sure what to say, apparently. In real life, she looks even more recovered than on the photograph. In fact, John cannot recall when he has last seen her look this healthy. She seems to be working out and has put on some muscle, sports a bit of a tan and some freckles across her nose, and even though she’s wearing Wellingtons and an old jeans and a rather ratty jumper, to his eyes it seems that she’s treating herself better now than she used to, with her hair cropped in an uncomplicated bob that suits her well, and reminds him of the tomboy she used to be as a teenager. There are more lines on her face, but some appear to have been dug there by smiling instead of worry, self-loathing and the aftermath of too many drinks.

Harriet nods towards his walking stick that he has leaned against the inner wall of the stall. “Leg?”

He shakes he had. “No, left shoulder, actually. The leg is just playing up sometimes.”

“PTSD, eh?”

John shrugs. For some reason, it doesn’t feel as awkward to admit this to her than he thought it would, perhaps because she’s been through pretty tough times herself. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Got a therapist?”

Always direct and to the point and not really heeding personal boundaries, that is Harry, and obviously she hasn’t changed. John lets out a long breath. “No. Thought about it, but ...” He shrugs.

She smiles wryly. “Yeah, I know, John Watson and talking about personal matters and feelings and stuff – not the most fitting of combinations.”

John bites back a sharp retort. “Have you been seeing a therapist, then?” he asks,

Harry nods. “Yes. Hated it at first, but now ... It’s all right, I guess. She’s good. I feel I can trust her, and that she takes me and my issues seriously. Perhaps Clara has told you, but I’ve been off the booze for a good while now. And it’s serious, this time.”

“Good, that’s really good, Harry,” John tells her, hoping his words come across as genuinely pleased as he feels, despite a faint nagging doubt remaining. John is very much aware of Harriet’s long history of trying to cease drinking, his high hopes at every attempt and utter disappointment when it failed. He hopes that she is going to indeed pull through this time. Harry, at least, appears to understand his words as a genuine expression of support, because a shy smile steals across her face.

“Whereabouts are you staying, then?” she asks after a moment of silence. “Mum said somewhere south.”

“Brixton,” answers John. “It’s not much, just a bedsit, but enough for now while I’m trying to get settled again.”

“You’re planning to stay around for a bit?” she enquires with a hint of doubt. There’s accusation, too, because John’s track record isn’t the best when it comes to staying close by.

“To be honest, I don’t know. London still feels alien to me. Still, work’s been keeping me busy so I didn’t have much time to look around for other things. But with my shoulder and the leg ... well, I’m not sure I’ll be able to work out in the field again. It’s tough enough for someone able bodied, depending where they send you. And sitting around somewhere doing an office job … no thanks.”

“But you’d love to go back, wouldn’t you?” she states, and John notes the hint of bitterness in her voice and the lack of a question.

He gives a small nod, because that, if he’s honest with himself, is the answer. The life he is leading at the moment is all but fulfilling, perhaps this is why, he reflects, he considers Sherlock and both the medical challenge and the mystery surrounding him such a welcome break in his routine.

Harry’s eyes watching him grow harder, and John feels the need to defend himself. “I’m not going to dash off any time in the near future,” he assures her. “I know you’re upset about me haring off to have adventures in the wild while you tried to keep things together round here, with grandma and everything. And perhaps I neglected to thank you, but I am grateful, I really am, Harry. You held the fort round here, and I never told you how much I appreciated it. But I did, and I do. So ... yeah ... thanks.”

She looks at him gravely for a long time, at length inclining her head. “You know, at times I was really, genuinely and passionately pissed off by you and your antics, and moreover the fact that mum and dad, and particularly mum were always defending you. Johnny playing the hero here and Johnny doing important work there. You were always so good at everything. School, uni, your job. Never caused any upheavals and problems. Even gran still recalls you winning that rugby derby back during your final year at school, although nowadays she remembers little else, and more often than not doesn’t even recognise me when I visit her. But her Johnny … God, she goes on about you almost every bloody time I’m there.”

She glares at him, but John sees the deep hurt and grief behind her expression, and her anger, too. And he knows it’s in part justified, which doesn’t exactly lighten his conscience. His initial reaction would have been to give her a defiant, heated reply. But no, he reminds himself. He has to concede her a point, or several, in fact. She is right. He has been a selfish arse, and she in particular was forced to bear the brunt of care and the anguish that is watching a beloved relative slowly slip away. Time to man up and face his responsibilities instead of shirking them.

John swallows. “I’m sorry, Harry. I truly am. It’d be easy to accuse you of not informing me of how serious things really are with gran and mum and dad, but ... I’d be even more of an arse to do so, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Well, you are an arse, Johnny, and always have been,” she tells him, and although her words are harsh, John can see a twinkle in her eyes that look clear once more, no longer dull and bloodshed from too much alcohol.

“Yeah, I know. Will you accept my sincere apology regardless?”

She studies him, cocking her head. “I’ll consider it. I’m going to visit gran on Tuesday afternoon. You’re very welcome to join me.”

John swallows again. “I’d be happy to,” he says, realising that he hasn’t seen his grandmother in about five years, the last occasion having been her eighty-fifth birthday.

Harriet nods briskly. “Good, we can arrange logistics later.” Craning her neck to get a better look at Sherlock, she raises her eyebrows. “So that’s the mystery horse Clara was raving about, the one with the weird but sickeningly rich owner?”

John half turns to Sherlock who has lifted his head and is observing Clara keenly. “Yeah, he is. He’s called Sherlock, and he arrived here in a pretty bad state. He looks much better today than he did yesterday, when it was really touch and go for a while. Actually, Harry, you could do me a favour and fetch his medication from the fridge. Clara knows which one. There is an extra bag stored in there with penicillin jabs and other stuff. The rest I’ve got here, I just need the antibiotics.”

Harry nods. “Okay. Anything else?”

“No, we should be fine, thanks, Harry.”

“Right.”

She turns to go, but after a few steps she halts. “Thanks for helping out here, John,” she tells him gravely. “Even though she may not have mentioned it, Clara was pretty worried about this horse and the implications for the shelter if he had died. Wouldn’t have made very good press, you understand. So ... yeah, cheers for stepping in. He seems to have taken to you, too, as I know critters tend to do.”

At this Sherlock gives a whinny. John laughs. “It appears he rejects you classifying him as a ‘critter’,” he observes.

Harry smiles, too. “Well, that’s his problem, isn’t it? Moreover, it’s not exactly like he understands what I’m saying. I’ll get you his drugs.” With a wink and another nod at John, she marches off.

John lets out a long breath as he turns back to Sherlock. The stallion has raised his head and is watching John intently. Once again, John has the uncanny feeling that he is being x-rayed by the strange eyes.

“What?” he finds himself asking involuntarily, spreading out his arms in a shrug. Sherlock snorts and begins to paw at the floor with his healthy foreleg.

John shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Siblings, I guess. Must be easier among you horses.”

At this, Sherlock shakes his head, causing his full, wavy mane and forelock to sway and ripple. John stares and swallows, his eyes narrowing. Something hot and exciting is stirring in his belly. Perhaps he wasn’t mistaken about Sherlock’s ‘reply’ to his former question after all. He steps closer and crouches down next to the reclining horse. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he asks quietly, “Was that supposed to mean ‘no’?”

Sherlock’s eyes hold his, and he nods.

John stares at him and blinks. That was deliberate. What the hell is going on here? He feels the need to clarify, to have his nagging suspicion confirmed. He swallows again, then licks his lips.

“You  _ can  _ understand what I’m saying?”

Sherlock snorts again, louder this time. It almost sounds exasperated, as if he’s disappointed that John is apparently catching on so slowly. He inclines his head again, with more fervour, this time.

John stares at him, whistling softly. “How?” he wants to know, before remembering that even though by some weird twist of ... whatever, Sherlock seems to be able to comprehend human speech, he can’t talk. A faint smile steals over John’s features, his insides burning with curiosity – and the firm conviction to have a stern word with Mycroft Holmes when next they meet about the other not telling him what this is all about in the first place.  _ Classified, my arse.  _ This is going to be the strangest game of who-am-I he’s ever played, and that’s taking into account the session with the Russian rangers back in Siberia, with him barely able to read the Cyrillic letters they had scrawled onto post-its and stuck to their foreheads, nor understanding who they were referring to. 

“Right, okay,” he tries again, cocking his head to study the Frisian who is regarding him with what John interprets as a mixture of impatience and resignation about the slowness and stupidity of humans. If Sherlock had eyebrows, John is convinced they’d be raised now. “Okay.”

Sherlock snickers impatiently. “Hey,” protests John, “give me a bit of slack, will you? I’ve encountered many unusual creatures in my life. Fascinating ones, I mean. But a horse that understands English is new even to me.”

Another snort. It causes John to laugh giddily. “Oh, it’s not just English you understand, is it?” This is completely mad. “What else, then? Français?”

Nod.

“Deutsch?”

Nod, accompanied by a ripple of coat that looks like a slight cringe at John’s atrocious pronunciation. He tries another. “Espaniol?”

Nod, with additional nods at Italian, a half-hearted one at Russian and Chinese, and, strangely, because to John it was just a shot into the blue, at Latin.

“Wow,” he concludes. “You know more languages than I. How on earth did you manage that? You can’t read, can you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. John narrows his eyes at him. “Meaning you can?” Sherlock nods.

John sits down in the straw, looking at Sherlock in utter fascination, accompanied by a good dose of alarm. Mr. Holmes insisted that Sherlock was conceived the normal way, but if this is true, how on earth was his extraordinary intelligence achieved? There’s always the possibility that Mr. Holmes has been lying to John, but for some reason, John rather believes that he simply omitted information, and phrases his replies very carefully so as not to give away too much. Not that he doesn’t seems like the kind of man who’d lie if it served his purpose.

But thinking about Sherlock’s uncanny owner only distracts John, he finds. John feels he simply has to ask. “Are you a genetic experiment?”

“Well, if I am, so are you?” Harry’s voice sounds from the direction of the door. John spins round as best as he can seated in the straw, and curses softly when his shoulder twinges at the rapid movement.

“Gosh, Harry, did you have to creep up on us like this?”

“Well, you furry friend here noticed me long before you did. Were you actually chatting to him? Is that a new medical practice?”

John rolls his eyes as he struggles to his feet, both resenting the fact that Harry once again interrupted his ‘conversation’ with Sherlock, for lack of a better word, while at the same time appreciating it, because it gives him some more time to think about the extraordinary things he has just learned and which he still has a hard time believing.

“Actually, I’ve always found that talking to them calms them,” he says a bit defensively.

Harry cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, there’s that. I often believe you’re more comfortable talking to animals than to humans.”

“I’m talking to you now, am I not?”

She scoffs, but steps into the stall and hands him the cooler bag. “Clara says she and Hal will be round shortly. Hal wants to replace the poultice again, and apparently he’s going to attempt to coax Lordship here into getting onto his feet again. Unless you can  _ talk  _ him into doing it, of course, Dr. Horse-whisperer.”

“Haha, very funny,” returns John, but without rancour. “Thanks for the drugs.”

She nods. “Come round the shop later and I’ll show you what we’re setting up here. Also, you look like you could do with some tea and food.”

“Later, yes. I’ve got some snacks with me. I like to look after Sherlock first, make sure he’s all right.”

She nods, eyeing the horse critically. “Okay, see you. Don’t forget about the shop.”

When she has left, John opens the bag and retrieves a syringe with the antibiotic, and also gets some gloves, antibacterial wipes and bandages out of his rucksack. He avoids looking at Sherlock as he begins treating him, having realised how he has neglected his patient’s medical needs whilst chatting to him, for lack of a better term. His insides are burning with curiosity, however, but with another interruption by Hal and Clara imminent, he doesn’t want to revisit the conversation, also taking into account how muddled his own thoughts are. Moreover, he feels that for the time being, Sherlock’s ‘speciality’ is a secret shared between himself and the horse.

Sherlock suffers the stab of the needle without complaint. John proceeds with carefully taking off the bandages covering the stallion’s neck and flank. The sutures look good. They are holding, and there is no sign of infection. John cleans them again and applies new bandages, before moving on to inspect Sherlock’s injured hind leg and hoof. When he touches the coronet, Sherlock jolts slightly, kicking out with his leg. Obviously the wound is still tender, although the infection seems to have lessened, and the swelling is much reduced.

John cleans these injuries, too, before stepping back to survey the horse. “Think you can stand up?” he asks. He is in two minds whether it’d be wise to have Sherlock struggle to his feet, an action that will put strain on his hind legs when he has to push up his body’s weight. On the other hand, it’s much better for his circulation, and with his left foreleg so much recovered, he can easily favour the hind leg and still stand comfortably and even doze.

Sherlock gazes at him as if he’s thinking along the same lines. John decides to give it a try, to see if the stallion will be able to manage. To entice him, John steps over to the plastic bag he brought from Tesco’s and rummages in it. With his back to Sherlock, blocking out his view but very much aware of his rapt attention, he opens one of the biscuit packages and withdraws a batch. He smiles when he hears a long, deep intake of breath behind him. Apparently Sherlock’s nostrils have caught the scent of the treat.

John turns and holding up one biscuit, he cocks his head at Sherlock. “Want one?”

Sherlock snickers, his head lifted with his strong neck stretched upwards, his ears perked, his nostrils flaring.  _ He does look eager, _ decides John.  _ Likely he’s really hungry, poor, daft thing. _ It’s not that there isn’t enough other, more horse-friendly food around and in Sherlock’s immediate vicinity.  _ But no, one considers oneself above it, apparently. _

John grins. “Well, come and get it, then,” he says, casually stepping back to busy himself with repacking his rucksack with all the utensils he didn’t need. Sherlock snickers again. John gives him a quick glance. The Frisian is tense and alert, and looks more than a little frustrated.

“Come on,” coaxes John. “You’re not that badly injured, nor do you make the impression of being completely exhausted. In fact, you look much recovered today. Just stretch your forelegs and push yourself up with your rear. It’s not that difficult. Will do you good, too. You won’t be doing it just for the biscuits.”

Sherlock snorts, sounding annoyed. He gives the horse another critical look. No, he decides, Sherlock’s definitely well enough to get onto his feet again, and it will in fact be more detrimental to his health if he stays in his current position.  _ Perhaps, _ muses John,  _ he’s just a bit lazy. Or he’s sulking again. In any case, I know a remedy. _

“Hm, looks like you don’t want the biscuits, then,” he says aloud, demonstratively returning two to the bag again. The third he holds up and sniffs it. “And yet they smell so nice. Wonder what they taste like.”

He nibbles at it, all the time watching Sherlock who snorts and shakes his mane in frustration. John grins and takes a full bite.

“Oh, yummy. Now this,” he holds up the half-eaten biscuit, speaking with his mouth full, “is really good. Tasty. Scrumptious. Sure you don’t want any? ‘Cause in that case, I think I’ll just finish the package right here and now. Didn’t have lunch, you see. Feeling rather peckish myself.”

He chews and swallows, then eats the rest of the biscuit and retrieves some more from the bag. Sherlock is watching him with what can only be described as a glare. John grins again and eats a second biscuit. He has to admit that even though he didn’t buy the posh brand Mr. Holmes brought the previous day but the supermarket’s own, much cheaper version, they truly aren’t bad. And now that he’s started eating, his stomach gives a rumble, demanding more.

Behind him, there’s another rumble, much louder and more forceful. With a rustle of straw and hay, a creaking of joints and an almighty sigh, Sherlock heaves himself to his feet. He stands for a moment as if he’s having difficulty getting all his four feet arranged under him, before his forelegs assume a straight, firm position, the joints locking to give him a secure stand. He no longer favours the left foreleg, but does shift his weight off his right hind leg and hoof. He snorts again, his coat rippling, and shakes his forelock out of his eyes.

John steps to him and gives him a broad smile. “Hey hey, well done, you. It’s not too bad, is it?” Reaching out, he shifts the voluptuous mane away from the bandages on the right side of Sherlock’s neck. It flips back almost immediately, and John decides to ask Alicia for some clips to hold it in place.

As he inspects Sherlock’s bandages for signs of bleeding and torn stitches, he feels a soft muzzle nosing at his hand holding the bag of biscuits. He grins.

“Want this?” he asks, retrieving one and holding it up. Sherlock makes an almost primeval sound and snaps it, barely missing John’s fingers. “Hey,” he complains, “easy.” He is tempted to tease the horse a bit more, but changes his mind. Sherlock seems to be really hungry, which is a good sign for his ongoing recovery. John opens the bag some more and upends it onto the floor, right into a heap of hay in the hope that Sherlock won’t only eat the biscuits, but some of the green stuff as well.

While the stallion greedily falls upon the food, John checks his side and legs again. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch when his injured foot is touched, so focused is he on the biscuits, which are disappearing at record speed. With a wry smile, John fetches another package and empties it, then brings the water bucket.

Leaving Sherlock to his meal, John fetches the grooming kit hanging from the pillar outside the stall. Down the corridor, he can see Tequila’s owners readying her for another ride, both once again clad in their posh riding attire, but a different one this time. Bemused, John has a vision of them owning an entire wardrobe or dressing room full of colour-coordinated riding gear. He nods to them when they notice him and they greet back.

When he returns into the stall, he sees that Sherlock has eaten all the biscuits on the floor, has shuffled over to the Tesco bag and is nosing in it, pulling out another package of biscuits with his teeth. John grins and steps to him, holding out his hand for the bag. Sherlock snorts and John rolls his eyes. “Just to open it, daftie. The contents are yours.”

With a hint of reluctance, Sherlock relinquishes his prey and John, true to his word, pours the biscuiets onto the floor. Watching Sherlock eat greedily, “Would you be inclined to try some more apples as well, and carrots?” he asks. Sherlock nods, shifting hay out of the way with his nose, and belatedly, John realises that once again he’s taken for granted that he can communicate with the animal like he would with a human. He feels another jolt of excitement coursing through him.

Tempted to take up the conversation again, to ask all the questions bubbling up inside him, he nevertheless forces himself to be patient as he digs in the grooming bag for comb and brushes, and the hoof pick. Stepping round to Sherlock’s other side, he begins combing his mane, picking bits of hay and straw out of the long curls. At first Sherlock eyes him warily as if not sure what John is about to do and whether he wants to be touched at all. John even sees him stiffen briefly as if preparing himself for flight, but soon the Frisian relaxes and concentrates on the biscuits again. When they are gone, he drinks more than half the water in the bucket.

John has almost finished brushing his coat and has bent down to comb the feather on Sherlock’s forelegs when Clara and Hal arrive, the latter carrying a bowl of porridge for his poultice. He smiles broadly and with obvious relief when he sees that Sherlock is back on his feet.

“You won’t try and bash in my head again, will you?” he remarks when he walks into the box, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance. Sherlock snorts.

“He’s been very peaceful,” says John appreciatively, clapping Sherlock’s broad neck. “I think he was simply frightened, stressed and in pain the other day. Come on, let me help you with the poultice. I’ve got bandages in my bag.”

Clara declares how pleased she is with Sherlock’s progress as well. “I hate to ask you for another favour, John, but could you have a look at one of our dogs? Mike treated him yesterday, but he said he needs a change of bandages, and Mike just called and said he won’t be able to make it today.”

“Sure. I’m happy to help. If you have any, you could bring Sherlock some apples and carrots. I believe he may eat those. We can’t feed him biscuits only.”

Sherlock makes a disappointed sound at that. John elbows his side gently, only after the action realising that this is what he would have done if Sherlock were a human and a mate of his. If Sherlock were a human ... Once the thought has been formulated, it sticks. John cannot unthink it, and he catches himself staring at Sherlock, taking in once again his unusual eyes, and reflecting once more on his wondrous, extraordinary abilities and mental capacities. John swallows as he studies the Frisian, surveying him critically for anything strange, uncanny. But there is nothing. He looks like any horse John has ever seen. Even the eyes ... there is a logical, a biological explanation for their colour. And yet ... and yet. The horse claims to understand Latin, for God’s sake.

“I asked if you wanted some cake,” Clara’s voice interrupts John’s thoughts. Startled, he licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair, realising that she must have addressed him before. Hal is watching him with a shrewd expression.

John clears his throat. “Oh, cake would be lovely. I think we can leave Sherlock to his own devices for a bit. I’ll check on him again later.” He begins to gather together his gear, and soon afterwards they set out towards the house, John’s mind spinning with new thoughts, and his heart beating with excitement. When they reach the main house he notices that he left his walking stick in the stable.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The remainder of the afternoon and the early evening pass quickly. John joins Clara, Hal, his sister and some of the other volunteers at Sunny Meadows for a lively tea and cake session in the kitchen, then spends the rest of the time looking after a number of four-legged patients, all the while trying not to think about Sherlock and the mystery he presents. At around six, when most of the guests and helpers apart from Hal, Stella and Ted and their son have left, Harry finds him outside on the meadow with his left arm halfway inside a young cow checking for pregnancy. Given the variety of animals John has treated this day, he feels strangely reminded of vet school. He feels bloody good, too, accomplished and efficient in a way he hasn’t for some time.

“How long are you planning to stay?” asks Harry, leaning against the wooden fence.

John withdraws his arm and peels off the glove. “Don’t know,” he replies. Then he remembers her earlier invitation. “Oh shit, I completely forgot about the shop.”

“No problem. I know Clara’s been keeping you busy.”

John grins. “Well, I’d rather say the animals have.” It feels strange to grin in the presence of his sister. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a mood to smile around her, while still recalling their easy companionship when they were still children, before puberty hit and they drifted apart.

Harry smiles as well. “You haven’t answered my question.”

John shrugs as he unties the cow and gives her a clap on the backside and she ambles away. “As long as you’ll let me stay, I guess. I’d appreciate a lift to the station later, but I could get a cab, too. How did you get here? You haven’t got a car, have you?”

“No. Don’t need one. Came on the train, and then by bike. Clara’s got an old one I’m sure she’d lend you, if you fancy a bit of cycling yourself.”

John makes a face. “Not sure that’d be a good idea, with my leg and the shoulder. I can give it a try, however. Let me just pack up here, and then you can show me your shop,” he offers as another token of good will towards her, because he still feels he’s in her debt for what she has done for their family.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Harry’s project is still in a rather unfinished state, but even without much knowledge of comparable enterprises, John likes what he sees. The rooms designated for the farm shop look as cozy and inviting as the kitchen, and the range of products Harry wants to offer sounds like it’d appeal to the regulars of the shelter, as well as customers from abroad since Harry has been running an online shop for some months now, successfully, as she says.

Clara joins them while Harry is unpacking boxes of handmade woollen gloves, scarves and other garments, and fluffy slippers made from fleece and felt. John compliments her on their efforts, and she beams. He doesn’t miss the glance the two women exchange, and finds himself blush and look away. He never understood why on earth his idiot sister walked out on a woman like Clara, but apparently Harriet has come to her senses, and Clara has the grace to forgive her. He hopes it’s going to work this time. Both look relaxed around each other, and happy, too.

“Thanks a lot for helping out today, John,” says Clara. “As you can see, we could really do with a resident vet round here, the place has grown so large.”

John arches an eyebrow. “Are you offering me a job?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Just a suggestion. I wouldn’t be able to pay you much, but Mr. Holmes’ ... donation yesterday has put us on a very stable financial basis, at least for the next few months. And I’d rather have someone around who actually cares about our assembly of misfits and outcasts and doesn’t tell me every other time they’re treating an elderly creature that it should be euthanised because it’s of no real use anymore.”

Thinking of his work at the RSPCA clinic and mentally comparing it to what he has done today, John knows what he’d prefer. The notion of potentially running into his sister and basically sharing a workspace with her doesn’t sound too appealing, however. Their encounter today went better than John had hoped, but he knows from long experience how quickly the wind can turn wherever Harry is involved. So far they’ve rather tip-toed around each other and forced themselves to treat the other civilly. Still, he reasons, Sunny Meadows is large and busy enough to avoid Harry and her whims should the need arise. The commute would be longer, but potentially less stressful as he’d be travelling out of London in the morning, not the other way round as most other commuters. He wouldn’t want to be tied down to the job for a long period of time, always keeping open the option of leaving the country again on a rescue mission or something similar (‘absconding’, Harry would say), but with his physical condition the way it is there is no big chance of anything like that happening in the near future. And like his locum position at Camberwell, this job, too, could be temporary, enabling him to cancel whenever he fancies.

Also, there’s Sherlock. The thought hits him like a stroke of lightning. He’s completely forgotten about Sherlock. There is no knowing how long the Frisian is going to be stabled here. Not indefinitely, John is convinced. But for the time being, Sherlock needs looking after. And John feels that he should be the one doing the honours. Sherlock doesn’t tolerate people as a rule. Hal and Clara seem to have earned his grudging trust. But John believes that with him Sherlock is different. The stallion appears to have taken to him in an unprecedented way. John feels strangely touched by that, and curious, too. He knows he has a knack with animals, but cannot help asking himself what on earth seems to make him appear special in Sherlock’s eyes.  _ Perhaps, _ he muses,  _ the toast and biscuits helped, or Sherlock simply likes my smell or the sound of my voice. _

_ Perhaps I should simply ask him, _ he thinks, and immediately smiles about the notion. He is beginning to consider Sherlock like he would another human.  _ Which perhaps he is, _ his mind adds, and he frowns. 

“John?” Clara’s voice startles him out of his reverie. “You okay? Listen, I didn’t mean to trouble you. It was just an idea. Never mind.”

“Oh, sorry, Clara. I was just thinking about something else. Actually, I rather like your offer, but I need to check with Sarah first. She said she was unlikely to need me this week, so I’d be at your disposal, but I’d like to make sure. I might even be able to work two shifts, one at Camberwell and one here, as long as the Tube and the trains run on time. I was planning on coming over regularly this week anyway, to look after Sherlock. He’s going to need penicillin jabs for another five days. I think after that time his stitches can be removed, too.”

Clara smiles. “Great. That’s good to hear. I can set up a preliminary contract, if you want, and we can discuss your salary and other things tomorrow, after you’ve mulled the idea over. Can I tempt you to some dinner?”

“Yes, but a sandwich will do. I’d like to check on Sherlock before I leave. Promised him some apples and carrots.”

“You’ve really taken to this horse, haven’t you?” states Clara.

“Well, he is rather unique, as you said,” replies John casually, not wanting to let her see how intrigued he truly is by Sherlock.

“That he is,” agrees Clara. “Come on, I’ll get you that sandwich. If you can make it, it’d be great if you could come over tomorrow afternoon. We’re expecting three new horses for stabling, and I’d like you to check them for the usual diseases, especially with Sherlock still in a vulnerable state. We really don’t need him catching equine influenza or some shit from one of the newcomers.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Half an hour later, his rucksack slung over his unhurt shoulder, a bag of apples and carrots in his right hand and a half-eaten cheese and pickle sandwich in his left, John enters the horse stable once again. Both Gonzo and Tequila great him with soft snickers through the bars of their stalls. Back in the gloom of Sherlock’s corner he sees movement as he draws closer, and catches a glimpse of bright grey eyes near the door before they quickly disappear and he hears the shuffle of hooves on straw. He grins to himself, swallowing another bite of his sandwich. Apparently someone has been waiting for his arrival, but is now too proud to show it.

When he reaches the door, Sherlock has indeed withdrawn into the back of the stall and stands with his head bowed, like he did the previous day. He doesn’t look exhausted anymore, however. To John, he appears to be pretending very hard to look bored and disinterested, positively sulking. His ears, however, betray him as they swivel towards John as he unlocks the door and draws it open.

“Hi, Sherlock,” he greets him. “Sorry it took so long, but I had to look after a couple of other residents. Here, I’ve brought you something.”

He sets down the bag and rucksack and opens the former, taking out an apple and a carrot and holding them out for Sherlock. Sherlock lifts his head and his nostrils flare with interest. “If you want any, you’ll have to come and fetch them yourself,” John tells him. Giving the stallion’s injured hind leg a critical glance, he adds, “Walking seems to be going all right again already. That’s brilliant. Come, get your dinner. I’ve some more biscuits for you, too.”

Sherlock snorts at this, and indeed moves towards John, obviously lured by the smell of food. John observes how he still favours his leg during the short walk but appears to be in less pain than in the morning and actually manages a fairly smooth walk instead of a pained hobble. John reminds himself to replace the poultice once more before he leaves, silently praising Hal’s miraculous recipe.

Reaching behind him for the rest of his sandwich which he placed on his rucksack, his fingers meet a soft muzzle. He spins round just in time to see Sherlock snatch the bread and suck it into his mouth with one greedy slurp.

“Hey, bloody thief, you,” complains John, swatting at his nose. “That was my dinner, thank you very much. Here’s yours.” He points at the apple and carrot bag. “Be glad you’re getting special treatment anyway. You should be munching hay and none of this fancy stuff. And the lactose in the cheese isn’t exactly good for you. What on earth has your owner been feeding you all this time? Used to hang out near his dinner table, did you, like an oversized dog?”

Sherlock ignores him, sniffing round the rucksack for more treats instead. John pushes it aside with his food but Sherlock doesn’t appear to be put off, moving closer and actually gripping the zipper of the front compartment with his lips and teeth and pulling it open. For a moment, John is so impressed that he simply stares, then he leaps forward to rescue the chocolate flapjack he bought in the morning but forgot to eat during the busy day before Sherlock can steal it, too.

“You’re a bloody nuisance,” John tells the horse sternly, but without real rancour. “Chocolate is even worse for you than the cheese, and I don’t think the pickles were entirely healthy, either.”

Sherlock snorts, sounding both exasperated and disappointed. He looks at John strangely, and John gets the impression that the stallion is attempting an eye-roll. He shakes his mane impatiently and crowds John against the wooden partition to one side of the stall. John swats at his nose again which is trying to reach the flapjack. Relentlessly, Sherlock pursues it wherever John tries to hide it, until the doctor dives under Sherlock’s neck and steps out of his reach, escaping through the door and pulling it shut.

Sherlock neighs angrily and tries to wedge first his foreleg and then his head between the door and the wall, with little success as John is holding it closed, putting his weight against it. Despite Sherlock’s annoyance, John thinks he can detect an element of playfulness in the horse’s actions. It’s not all about Sherlock being hungry. It’s not about the chocolaty treat, either. Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself, snickering softly while trying to push open the door. John feels laughter bubbling up in him. Good God, now he’s fooling around with a bloody horse. And what’s more, he likes it. He likes Sherlock with all his whims and peculiarities. He truly has a character of his own, much more evident and developed than any John has ever encountered in an animal, and this includes his great-aunt’s parrot Gustav who knew twenty-seven swearwords of the vilest calibre (and was fond of using them at the most inconvenient moments) and could sing and whistle the entire “Best of Queen” without having ever been left in a car for too long.

Sherlock neither sings nor whistles, but John is rather convinced that were someone to translate his snorts and snickers right now, they’d come out as swearwords. Posh ones, most likely, not what good old Gustav used to sprout when he was in the mood. When even after a combined effort of nose and forehoof the door doesn’t budge, Sherlock gives a rumbling snort and lifts his head to glower at John through the bars. John grins and holds up the flapjack.

“Let’s make a deal, okay, Sherlock?” he suggests. “You’ll be a good horse and eat a fork of hay, some carrots and apples, and when I’m convinced you’ve got enough healthy, horse-approved fodder in you, I’ll share the flapjack with you.”

Sherlock snorts as if the suggestion is utterly preposterous. John shrugs, his grin broadening. “Well, suit yourself. I’m going to eat my half now, out here where you can’t get it. It’s up to you. No hay, no chocolate. It’s that easy.”

Slowly opening the plastic wrapper of the cereal bar, John sniffs it. “Ah, smells brilliant.” He takes a bite and chews it thoughtfully, savouring the rich taste of oats, honey and dark chocolate. “Now this is most excellent. Much better than the biscuits. Sure you don’t want the other half?”

A death glare from Sherlock, then his head disappears from the bars. John hears some shuffling, before the head pops up again with a carrot dangling from his mouth. Whenever John takes a small bite from the flapjack, Sherlock matches him by either eating a carrot or an apple. “Don’t forget the hay,” John reminds him.

Again the would be eye-roll and the exasperated snort, there is a pause, and then, with a sense of drama, Sherlock lifts his head to demonstrate that his mouth is indeed full of hay, which he chews with his eyes fixed on John, sporting an expression of utter disgust. John watches him repeat the exercise about five times, until he relents and draws open the door again. Sherlock has his head in the water bucket and is drinking noisily, as if to get rid of the taste of hay. John lays a hand on his withers, causing the stallion to lift his head, his muzzle dripping. John claps his neck appreciatively.

“Well done, Sherlock. Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Sherlock nods fervently and John laughs.

“Oh, come on. You really are a bit prissy, aren’t you. But here, you really earned this one.”

He holds out the flapjack on his flattened hand. Sherlock snorts haughtily, half turning away. John raises his eyebrows. “Don’t want it?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Liar,” says John. “I can see you smelling it. You do want it, badly. Come on. I didn’t intend to annoy you. It’s just … I mean, you can’t live on biscuits and chocolate only. I really ought to have a word with your owner about proper nutrition for horses if that’s what he used to feed you. He didn’t make the impression of someone who didn’t even know the basics of horse care, quite the contrary. But you never know with these fancy folks, eh?”

He extends his arm towards Sherlock and eventually, as if doing him the greatest of favours, the Frisian lowers himself to consider the treat (quite literally by arching his strong neck) and very delicately and daintily lifts it off John’s hand, dripping water onto it. John laughs and wipes his hand first on his jeans, then on Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock nudges him amicably with his head, and John reaches out to ruffle his forelock, before looking at him gravely, pursing his lips. Drawing a deep breath, he shakes his head gently, still studying the horse with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

“God, Sherlock, I’ve got so many questions for you,” he states quietly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the illustration:  
> 


	5. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your support. I'm rather taken aback by how well received this story appears to be.

Sherlock looks at him with grave intensity, then snickers softly and inclines his head, as if to show his willingness to answer John’s questions as best he can. John licks his lips again, running a hand through his hair. Stepping a little closer to the horse, he clears his throat.

“Right, okay. This is going to be a bit complicated as you can’t talk. I’ll try and phrase my questions so you can answer with nods and shakes of head, all right?” He grins briefly. “Like a game of Egghead, almost, only without the post-its.”

Sherlock nods.

“Good, excellent. Er ...,” John gazes at him and begins to laugh nervously. “I don’t know how to begin. There’s so much I’d like to know. Right, let’s see ... Where you really born in 1977?”

Nod.

John worries his lower lip with his teeth. “That’s really odd. You should look much older. Few horses even reach that age. But okay, good. Er … you’re not a genetic experiment, are you?”

Sherlock nods, then makes a complicated move, his coat rippling at his withers. John interprets this as an attempt at shrugging.

“You don’t know?”

Sherlock gives him a mild glare. “Right, okay, I see. How can you? For all I know, I could have been produced in a test tube, too, and been adopted, at least I believe that’s what Harry likes to think at times. Do you have any siblings?”

Nod.

“Really? Interesting. Older?”

Nod.

“How many? Er ... I mean, one?”

Nod.

“Sister?”

Shake of head.

“Brother, then, right.” John nods to himself, then frowns. Any normal horse would likely have a fair number of siblings and half-siblings. He enquires after the latter and Sherlock shakes his head again.

“So just the one brother? That’s odd.” He scratches his head. Sherlock shakes his mane and snorts, pawing the ground with his right forehoof. To John, he looks a bit testy, as if this question and answer game is taking too long and is already trying his patience. Or perhaps John is asking the wrong things. But many of the questions John wants to ask can’t easily be answered with yes and no. He is studying Sherlock thoughtfully, trying to think of what to ask next when his mobile announces he’s received a text message.

With a sigh, he retrieves it from the inner pocket of his jacket. The text is from Sarah, asking him whether he can come in early the next day because Dave just called in sick and Soraya won’t be able to make it since her child’s minder has a doctor’s appointment. Regretfully, John looks at Sherlock who is eyeing him and the phone with great interest, before reluctantly texting back that of course, he can come in, promising to be there at eight.

He is about to put the phone away again when he feels a nudge against his shoulder. Sherlock has shuffled even closer and is sniffing at the phone. John frowns and holds it out to him.

“Mobile phone. You’ve seen it before when I played you some music, remember?”

Sherlock makes one of his more exasperated snorts which John has come to interpret as an expression of or even a complaint about him stating something incredibly obvious. He smiles to himself.

“Want me to switch on the music again? You seemed to like it last time.”

Sherlock nods, rubbing his head against John’s shoulder amicably. John laughs. “Okay, I take this as a yes. I’ll just put it on shuffle again, all right? Don’t worry, I don’t have any annoying stuff on there. Oi, what are you doing?”

Sherlock has leaned in even closer as if trying to peer at or even touch the display. John looks up at him questioningly. “What’s the matter?” he asks when U2 begins to play. “Don’t like it?”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and continues to nose at the phone. Not interested in getting it smeared with horse snot, John moves it out of the way, but Sherlock crowds into him and stretching his neck, actually manages to touch the phone with his muzzle.

“Sherlock,” reprimands John, “what’s gotten into you? Want me to play you something else?” A vigorous shake of head that causes Sherlock’s long mane to lash against John, tickling his cheek.

“Okay, what’s the matter? You want to see the display?”

Nod.

John’s brows knit together. “I take it you’re not interested in my background picture, so ... Hell, I’ve no idea what you want. I don’t suppose you’d like to look up the latest development of the Dow Jones on the internet.”

Sherlock nods.

“What?”

John stares at him, then starts to laugh when Sherlock snickers, which almost sounds like a low chuckle. John’s eyes narrow. “Not the Dow Jones, then, eh? But the internet? You want to look up something online? Race results? Hot mares?” He waggles his eyebrows. Sherlock glares at him.

“Okay, sorry, didn’t mean to tease you. Much, at least. So, no mares, then. What on earth could a horse need the internet for? Can you even see the display properly?”

Sherlock nods again, once more rubbing his head against John’s shoulder as if to underline his desire. Both of John’s eyebrows have taken residence in the vicinity of his hairline at this statement, although he shouldn’t be surprised anymore, he thinks. After everything he has learned about Sherlock during the past two days, nothing, and he means _nothing,_ should shock him anymore, not even if Sherlock suddenly sprouted wings or began to tap dance in front of him. Well, so now he wants to check the internet? So what? That’s fine, isn’t it, for a horse that understands several languages. _Perhaps he wants to look at hot horse ladies after all but is too proud or embarrassed to admit it,_ thinks John, suppressing a giggle. _Or he wants to shop for the latest horse tack and grooming utensils. Or another brand of fancy biscuits._

Sherlock snorts next to his face and he looks at the Frisian, trying to assume a serious countenance once more and failing. “Right, so you want to go online, yes? How on earth am I supposed to know which site?”

Sherlock snickers softly, and begins to paw at the floor again. John rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not going to go through the alphabet letter by letter so you can tell me yes or no, supposing you even know how to spell, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”

Sherlock neighs softly, nodding at the ground. John stares. With his hoof, Sherlock has shifted the straw so that several deep grooves have appeared, wriggly, misshapen lines that nevertheless can be recognised as what they are supposed to be: letters. Still marvelling despite his earlier resolution not to anymore, John moves next to Sherlock.

“N E W S,” say the crooked lines.

John swallows, and reaches out to lay his hand on Sherlock’s withers, more for his own support than to pet or caress the horse. He nods, reawakening his phone from sleep mode and opening a browser with his left thumb. “Right,” he mutters, “okay. I see you do know how to spell.”

Utilising his other hand as well, he types in the BBC address, then looks at Sherlock as the site loads. “World news or local?” he asks, wondering yet again when his life took this strange turn and left him standing next to a black horse that can understand what he is saying, can spell and write and possibly read, with John following the creature’s instructions which website to access on his phone. Of all the weird and wonderful things John has seen in his not uneventful life, this, he decides, must be the strangest and most bewildering yet fascinating. And there seems to be no end in sight. He is convinced Sherlock has yet more surprises in store for him.

Sherlock snorts, leaning in closer. John holds up the phone so that the stallion can see the display. Sherlock moves his head this way and that, and John wonders if he has trouble focusing on the small symbols. After all, equine eyes are not exactly made for reading small print. _Or reading in general. God, this is weird._

John clears his throat. “Er ... want me to click on anything? Zoom in on an article? There’s loads of stuff about the upcoming election. Can’t imagine you’d be interested in that.” He frowns at Sherlock, who shakes his head, his mane brushing John’s cheek as he leans in closer and peers over the doctor’s shoulder as he scrutinises the display. John chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. What on earth could Sherlock be interested in?

“Want to check whether some more reliable news site than the _Daily Mail_ has published your story?”

Sherlock shakes his head again, snorting impatiently.

John shrugs. “What then? London news?”

A nod and a nudge from Sherlock’s muzzle.

John brings up the site. “Anything in particular? There’s loads of stuff about Boris, more election crap, oh, another cyclist was run over by a lorry. Why can’t they just banish those from the city during daytime? Even Paris managed to. What else is there ... hey, give it a break, I’m scrolling as fast as I can. The site is loading at snail speed at the moment, as you can see.”

He turns to Sherlock and lightly swats him on the nose when the stallion gives the back of his head another nudge and snorts into his hair.

“The internet isn’t exactly fast round here, and the wifi from the main house doesn’t reach this far. There’s a new exhibition at Tate Modern, announcements for the Proms ... football, the races ... want to read about those? No? Okay. Thought perhaps a mate of yours was running there. Actually, this is interesting. Total outsider won, some lucky bloke made a fortune betting on her. What else have we got ... science ... they’ve been making progress battling Ebola, thank Goodness. Oh, and there appears to have been an accident at a lab at UCL.”

At this, he feels Sherlock draw in an excited breath. “Want me to open the article?” John wants to know. Sherlock nods fervently.

The article in question turns out to be a small blurb only, stating that after a fire broke out at the biochemistry lab at University College London, it was evacuated, luckily without anybody getting hurt because at the time – in the middle of the night – nobody except security personnel were inside the building.

However, the article seems to excite Sherlock. He snorts again, and noses at the phone. John takes this as a sign to click on one of the linked articles which deal with genetics, another with protests against animal testing which seem to have been going on in front of the building for a while and which police is now investigating in conjunction with the fire, suspecting arson or some attempt at sabotage. John cannot find any information about what exactly was being worked on at the lab. The information appears to be classified, a fact not cherished by the reporter who hints at some unsavoury things, but without accusing the scientists directly.

“There’s another, earlier article also mentioning the lab,” says John after reading the article to Sherlock. “The reporter refers to it. It’s also about protesters. Some time last week, there seems to have been a demonstration and blockade in front of the lab, interestingly not by students but what looked like PETA activists, even though PETA denied any involvement in the matter.”

John reads the article to Sherlock as well, who seems to be getting increasingly excited, even agitated. He withdraws from behind John and begins to pace in the small space of his stall. John watches him move about restlessly in the cold light from his mobile phone. His light blue-grey eyes glittering, Sherlock tosses his mane and swishes his tail as he circles and circles, making soft noises to himself that almost sound like he’s muttering.

“Sherlock,” John addresses him, and only after he repeats the name, Sherlock’s ears swivel round to him and the stallion halts his movement and raises his head to gaze at him. John licks his lips. “This ... accident, or break-in, whatever it was ... This, and the thing they were working on at this lab ... do they have anything to do with you? I mean ... your owner said you were ... er ... conceived the normal way. Naturally, I mean. But ... I don’t want to imply that there’s anything unnatural about you, don’t get me wrong. But you’re not an ordinary horse, either. Far from it. So ... even if you’re not a genetic experiment, something must have happened to you to make you what you are now. I admit I haven’t the faintest idea, despite my training. I’ve never seen the like before, and I can’t think of any scientific explanation that’d make sense. I don’t exactly believe in magic or something like it. Do you know what it was that made you what … who you are now? Does it have to do with what they’re researching at UCL?”

Sherlock gazes at him gravely, then makes a complicated movement with his head that seems to mean yes and no at the same time, and therefore isn’t very helpful to John. He reckons he again asked too many questions at once. Unfortunately, he doesn’t manage to specify them, because just then footsteps sound on the corridor and Hal’s flappy-eared head pops round the door.

“Hey, Doc, how’s lordship doing?”

John hopes his disappointment at the interruption isn’t showing on his face. He attempts a smile instead. Sherlock snorts and shakes his head again.

“Oh, he’s much better. I see you brought stuff for refreshing the poultice. Your recipe really worked wonders. I suggest we put on another for tonight, and then see how things look tomorrow. He may manage to do without then.”

Hal nods, bringing the bowl and bandages inside the stall. Sherlock has ceased his pacing and has withdrawn to the rear of the stall where he stands, his tail swishing and his coat rippling with nervous energy, despite there being no flies around. To John looks like he is deep in thought. An idea strikes him. Sherlock seemed exceedingly interested in the news, and since he can’t handle a touch screen phone without fingers, a more traditional medium he can operate with his lips or teeth might do the trick.

“Hal,” enquires John as he stoops next to Sherlock’s hind leg to remove the bandages, “do you know if Clara has today’s papers?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

After they’ve finished applying the poultice, John gets the papers ( _Metro,_ a copy of the _Evening Standard,_ and one of the local newspaper) from the main house, as well as a small torch. Clara doesn’t ask what he needs them for, and offers to take him to the station when he’s ready. It’s indeed getting rather late. John informs her about Sarah’s message and his plans for the next day.

“No problem, John,” Clara assures him. “Just come over when you can. Let me know if you want me to get you from the station, although tomorrow the District Line should be running again, and the Tube stop is much closer. Anything else you need for Sherlock tonight?”

“No, he should be fine. Oh, one more thing, though. Has Mr. Holmes sent word that he’ll come over again this evening? If yes, I’d like to wait for him. I’ve a couple of questions for him.” _Which is a big understatement._

“Actually, his PA (or driver, or bodyguard, or whatever she is) called, and said that he’s going to be out of the country for a few days. In case we require anything, or need to communicate with him urgently, we are to inform her and she’ll forward the requests or messages to him. Seems to be some super secret business as she didn’t want to elaborate. Personally, I’m convinced he’s a spy, or rather somebody who pulls the strings behind the government. Hopefully he’s working on a plot to get rid of morons like Farage and his cronies.”

John laughs, because this is the impression he’s got of Mycroft Holmes as well after their conversation and the slightly creepy car ride yesterday. “Perhaps he’s like James Bond’s ‘M’,” he suggests.

Clara snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, that’d fit. Down to the letter. Anyway, thanks for ... you know, trying to be civil to Harry today. I know she can be taxing, and a bit of a jerk. But I think she was upset about the way you had drifted apart. She really has changed, you know, and I think she needs to hear some encouragement now and again. As I said, she’s been a big help round the place.”

John nods. “I’m glad to see that she seems to have finally pulled herself together. Hope it lasts, although …,” he sighs. “It’s not the first time, and she always relapsed before. I agree that it looks more serious and hopeful now, but … ” He shrugs a little helplessly, and Clara nods.

John draws a deep breath and adds, to end on a more confident note, “Hope you two get to sort things out between you, at least.”

Clara smiles a little shyly and blushes. “That’s what I hope, too. She may be a jerk, but I like to consider her my jerk, you know. We’re working on it.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Back in the stable, Sherlock looks up surprisedly when John returns and deposits the newspapers on the floor at his feet, and then attaches the torch to the bars of the stall with a length of wire he found in the tack room.

“For when they switch off the overhead lights at night,” he explains to Sherlock who is watching him interestedly. “Come here, and try to switch it on. Hope you’ll manage with your nose or teeth.”

Eagerly, Sherlock shuffles over, and after some acrobatics with his head and muzzle, trying different angles, he manages to press the torch against the partition and shift the switch. He practises switching it off and on for a few times, then whinnies softly and looks at John expectantly.

John claps his neck appreciatively, smiling. “Well done. You _are_ rather clever, aren’t you? Not sure how long the batteries are going to last, so you’ll want to be a bit careful. Also, try not to alert Clara by waving a torch around the stable in the middle of the night. She might think there’s a burglar in here and call the police. I’ll bring you new batteries and more papers tomorrow, if you want.”

Sherlock nods, before, after a moment’s hesitation, he gently rubs his head against the side of John’s and snickers softly.

John smiles at him and rubs his muzzle. “Was that a ‘thank you’?”

Sherlock nods again. John swallows, feeling touched. There is something about the direct, unfiltered way Sherlock expresses his emotions that John finds extremely appealing, because it’s not something many humans do, he’s found. They are wont to communicate in riddles and cyphers, saying this and meaning that. People can be duplicitous, false. Sherlock’s basic communication skills are refreshingly honest, genuine, and adorable in their awkwardness and improvisation.

Reaching up, John strokes his head. “Try not to tear down the stable tonight if you read anything that upsets you again, okay,” he tells the stallion softly. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

Sherlock nods, and when John picks up his rucksack to leave the stall, Sherlock follows him to the door and stands gazing out through the bars. John gives him a wave, feeling a strange sense of bereavement and loneliness when he exits the stable.

 

**- <o>-**

 

On the train back into London, a number of questions he wanted to ask Sherlock come to his mind, and he scribbles them down into his notebook, to then change his mind and type them into an email, which he sends to the address Anthea has left with Clara. He is not sure whether Mycroft Holmes is going to reply to them, but he tries to sound both polite and yet demanding, because he feels that the mysterious politician owes him more than a few cryptic remarks about Sherlock’s past.

Back home, he takes a shower, then spends the rest of the evening until well after midnight looking for more articles about the UCL lab and related topics. He gets sucked into a website created by some rather militant animal protection groups that post conspiracy theories about a secret army lab somewhere up in Dartmoor, where locals claim to have seen monstrous creatures stalking the misty moors and even attacking sheep or unsuspecting hikers. John doubts there’s anything veritable to these stories, but on the other hand he, too, is convinced that a lot of dark and potentially dangerous and unethical research is conducted behind closed doors and hushed up by the organisations involved, and the government who in many cases seems to at least tolerate these questionable branches of science. And who knows, perhaps Sherlock is the result of one of these experiments.

John bookmarks or saves whatever he thinks might interest Sherlock, to print the articles at the clinic so Sherlock can peruse them on paper at his leisure.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The next morning, after skipping breakfast because he oversleeps slightly, a nightmare of a commute which he spends wedged between sweaty people on delayed trains, his leg and shoulder protesting at the strain of having to stand in an uncomfortable position for an extended period of time, he barely has any respite to visit the loo, and much less to print the files for Sherlock. The clinic is swamped with several critical cases, and the lack of personnel means that John works nonstop until after three, when Sarah tells him sternly to get a cup of tea and a bite of food, and have a seat in the staff room before he faints.

He types an apologetic text to Clara informing her about the reason for his delay while finally plugging his memory stick into the computer to print the articles. Clara assures him that it’s all right. The new lodgers have only just arrived and are being looked over by Alicia and Hal.

 _Sherlock has been making a bit of a mess of his stall again,_ she writes in an additional message. _For some reason, he has heaped most of the straw in one corner and is lying on top of it, refusing to budge when Alicia and I came to clean the floor. But he has eaten some more apples and carrots, and the last package of biscuits. He even had some oats and a bit of hay, although he didn’t look like he cherished the taste. Will you make it over at all today? Clara_

_Yes, I’ll be on my way in about an hour. Sorry again for not coming earlier, but it’s been hell over here, and doesn’t look like it’s going to be any better tomorrow. See you soon, J_

 

**- <o>-**

 

The walk from Southfields tube station is relatively short, but after the day he’s had at the clinic and on public transport, John is knackered, his leg hurting and his head throbbing dully due to his neglect of food and drink throughout the day. Despite the advanced hour, he spots several cars in front of the stables, two equipped with horse trailers. A portly man wearing a tweed jacket and Wellingtons is standing next to one and smoking a cigarette. An old Dalmatian is lying at his feet, lifting its head lazily when John hobbles past. The man nods to John, but otherwise doesn’t accost him.

The stable is a hive of activity, especially in the rear part, with Clara, Hal, Alicia and two other girls busy fetching hay and straw and water buckets, and two middle-aged women, one in stable gear and one dressed like she’s just arrived from a business meeting standing near the door of one of the newly occupied stalls, talking to each other. The business woman looks familiar to John. He believes he has seen her on television some time ago. He doesn’t recall exactly in which context, but he considers the possibility that she is some local MP.

Clara spots him and greets him warmly after giving him a slightly worried glance. “You look like you could do with some dinner, and not a mere sandwich for a change. Do you want a bite now or have a look at our new guests first. And Sherlock, of course. I think he’s already pining for you. Every time somebody walked past his stall, he looked up expectantly, only to turn away in disappointment when it was only Hal or I or Alicia.

Touched by her words, John smiles. “I’ll check the new horses first, and then have a bite and look after Sherlock.” Truth is, he, too, has missed the horse’s easy yet fascinating company, and looks forward to seeing him again and moreover bringing him the articles he collected.

Luckily, the three horses – two Thoroughbreds and a Hanoverian, all three with several wins at eventing under their belts – have their papers in good order, have vaccinations against all major ailments they could possibly be protected against, and seem healthy after a thorough check. The owners appear to be sensible, too, if a little posh. John was right about the MP, who used to ride national competitions before getting into politics. Pointedly, they avoid discussing the upcoming elections, although it seems that because she is going to be caught up in campaigning, the politician wants her horse stabled and looked after professionally while she hasn’t got the time to do it herself.

After ten minutes of small talk which seem like an eternity to John, he takes his leave and makes his way over to Sherlock, who has been watching the conversation through the bars of his stall, snorting and snickering softly and even banging against the wooden walls of his confinement as if to make John abort the conversation and come over more quickly.

John smiles tiredly when he enters the stall. The cooler bag with the penicillin is already standing outside. Sherlock is no longer wearing the bandage on his leg, and he seems to have buried his newspapers and the torch under the straw. He studies John intently when the doctor sets down his rucksack with a groan and runs a hand over his eyes.

“Sorry it took so long, Sherlock. Busy day. Come, let me have a look at your leg. Did you rip the bandage off yourself, or did Hal help you? Ah, looks like Hal’s work. Good.”

He stoops and gently feels along the feather. The leg doesn’t feel hot anymore, and the swelling has receded even more. Sherlock barely twitches, and John smiles because that means the injury isn’t tender any longer. Sherlock still favours the leg when he stands, but John notices that he puts more weight on it when he walks.

“You’re making good progress,” he declares, straightening and holding on to Sherlock’s broad back for a moment for support when a wave of queasiness ripples through him. “Let me give you that jab. I want to check the stitches, too. Hold still for a moment.”

Sherlock endures his absolutions quietly, although to John he seems to be quivering with excitement. When John is reapplying the bandages to his side, after deciding to leave the wound on his neck to heal without covering now since most of the time Sherlock’s long mane is flopping over it anyway, Sherlock begins to dig out the newspapers and pushes them towards John with his nose and foreleg.

They look rather worse for wear. “You didn’t try to eat them, did you?” asks John, fishing stalks of straw out of Sherlock’s mane. Sherlock shakes his head, snorting. John picks them up and folds them to store them in his rucksack, from which he withdraws the stack of printouts. He holds them up for Sherlock to see.

“Here, brought you some more reading material. Articles I found online, and today’s copies of some newspapers.”

Sherlock whinnies excitedly, rushing over to John to snatch the sheets from his hand with his mouth and scattering them on the ground. John shakes his head and heaves a sigh.

“Hey, be careful,” he cautions, lowering his voice. “There are still plenty of people around. I’m not sure they’d understand why the floor of your stall is covered in newsprint. Here, let me help you cover them up. You can read them tonight, okay? For now, have you eaten enough today? I for one am starving.”

Sherlock snickers and pushes some hay towards John with his head. John laughs, leaning against him and cherishing his warmth for a moment. “Haha, very funny. That’s your revenge for yesterday, isn’t it? Well, I think Clara’s going to serve me something else later.”

Sherlock makes a soft sound, and John smiles at him and rubs his withers. “But thanks for wanting to share your food with me. It’s the thought that counts, eh?”

Sherlock nods.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Against John’s hope for improvement of his schedule, and for more time to spend with Sherlock, the next couple of days continue in the same desperately busy vein. Despite his best efforts, he never manages to leave the RSPCA clinic earlier than four or five o’clock in the afternoon. After an hour’s commute and a number of patients to look after at Sunny Meadows, and once at a neighbouring cattery with an emergency, this leaves him only about an hour to spend with Sherlock in the evening. The time is mostly taken up by actually grooming the horse and treating his healing injuries. The three new equine lodgers, Shejla, Aragorn and New Brunswick (usually called Bruno) require a lot of looking after, meaning the stables are much busier than before, with people frequently passing by Sherlock’s stall on their way to the tack room and back, often stopping for a chat or some (free) medical advice.

This means that John rarely has a private moment for asking some of his burning questions concerning Sherlock’s past. His email to Anthea has remained unanswered, apart from a short note that it has been received and will be forwarded to Mr. Holmes. For the first day John checked his emails every few minutes, then ceased to do so frustratedly when no other reply was forthcoming.

He continues to research articles and collect newspapers for Sherlock who seems to soak up knowledge like a sponge and appears to grasp even complicated texts rather effortlessly. When John arrives late on Tuesday evening, the Frisian has sorted his reading material into stacks according to topic, and indicates to John which articles he wishes to keep, and which John can remove again. During a quiet moment, John shows him some more articles online, to enquire which ones Sherlock would like to have printed. So far, John hasn’t managed to deduce a pattern to Sherlock’s interests which appear to be broad yet somewhat eclectic, although he tends to favour scientific reading, mostly chemistry and biochemistry, with selected texts about botany and, interestingly, bees and beekeeping, as well as everything dealing with local crime, particularly murders. And gossip. He seemed particularly delighted about a copy of _The Sun_ John found on the Tube.

John marvels that so far, Sherlock’s collection of newsprint has gone unnoticed by those cleaning his stall and feeding him, but apparently he hides them well during the day, burying the sheets under hay and straw and covering them with an old blanket John has left in the stall, or his own body.

The longer their strange yet wonderful symbiosis lasts, the more John wonders whether Sherlock used to be a mad scientist whose latest experiment involved some kind of shape-shifting-body-transformation-thing that for some reason went wrong. Or right, depending how one looks at it. In comparison to the first evening, Sherlock has calmed down immensely and is positively relaxed and even increasingly mischievous and playful around John, although the doctor has noticed that he’s much more guarded and reluctant to let himself be touched by others, even Hal, Clara and Alicia. Strangers he doesn’t even suffer in his stall, which Bruno’s owner learns when she enters unbidden to borrow a hoof pick from John and gets chased out again by a startled and annoyed Sherlock.

Moreover, there are moments when Sherlock becomes very still and withdrawn, staring ahead of him. To John he looks immeasurably sad during those times, which seem to occur most often when there’s a break in their otherwise well-working if unusual and improvised communication of John talking and Sherlock replying as best he can non-verbally. During these moments, John thinks Sherlock feels frustrated about not being able to answer more eloquently than in his habitual nods and head-shakes, snorts and snickers. First, he gets impatient, and then he tends to interrupt their ‘talk’ and shuffles off to sulk in a corner.

The first few times this happened, John tended to leave him to it, but later found that some mild coaxing with biscuits or other ‘human’ food seems to do the trick and break Sherlock out of his sulk, as does music, especially classical pieces featuring a solo violin.

Even though he still appears to loathe it, Sherlock has taken to eating hay and oats, but only the bare minimum to keep the worst hunger at bay. The rest of his nutrition still consists of apples, carrots and bread, with the occasional oat biscuit, and, on Thursday evening to lift his spirits out of a particularly dark spell during which he doesn’t even react to John spreading out two scientific journals in front of him, a small blueberry muffin.

Normally, and to John’s secret delight because if he’s honest with himself he has come to truly like Sherlock, considering him almost a friend instead of a patient (and an animal), Sherlock expresses his appreciation of new food for his brain through happy snorts and snickers. These sounds are frequently accompanied by affectionate rubs with his head. Not so now. He rarely stirs, standing with his head hanging morosely and his eyes closed. John places the magazines in front of him with the muffin on top, and sighs when Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him at all, and shows no interest in the treat which surely he must be able to smell.

Biting his lip, John withdraws and fetches new batteries for the torch, wondering whether Sherlock is upset about something he read previously, or about John’s delay. Contrary to his promise the previous day to come over earlier to take Sherlock outside for some light exercise in the paddock to strengthen his injured legs, due to some signal failure on the Tube John didn’t make it in time and only managed to pop in very late. By then it has started to rain with a cold wind blowing – not ideal for a trip outside, particularly with Sherlock only partly recovered.

“Listen, Sherlock, I’m truly sorry,” he apologises yet again. “I know I promised, but with being dependent on public transport and this not working, there was nothing I could do. I will take you outside, I promise – if you promise not to try and run away. But not when it’s pissing down like that. Come on, cheer up. The forecast said the weather should be fine over the weekend. Much warmer, too. I could even take you out on the meadow, so you can hang out with the other horses.”

At this, Sherlock gives a disdainful snort before reverting to sulk-mode.

John frowns at him, then sighs and picks up the torch which has fallen into the straw. “Suit yourself. I’m just trying to help you, you know. As your vet.” He draws a deep breath. “And as your friend, too, I guess,” he adds quietly.

There is no reaction from Sherlock who seems to have completely withdrawn into his own head. However, John’s words appear to have touched him, if horses can feel that way. A little later, when John is concentrating on fixing the torch to the bars again after replacing the batteries, Sherlock quietly moves to stand right behind him. For a while he does nothing but stand there and breathe into John’s hair. John lets him, pointedly not turning because he is curious what Sherlock is up to. Eventually, the stallion stretches his neck to sniff at John’s hand and then gives it a brief lick, shy and tentative, as if unsure whether it is being appreciated, whether he is allowed to touch John that way.

Startled, John laughs in surprise and turns to Sherlock who has averted his eyes and half-turned his head, looking almost embarrassed. If he were human, John is convinced he’d be blushing furiously. His laugh softens into a warm smile and he wipes his hand on Sherlock’s coat, which earns him an irritated snort, followed by a nudge of Sherlock’s head. John ruffles his forelock. “Come on, eat your muffin,” he tells the Frisian, speaking lightly and rubbing his neck. Secretly, however, he is touched, both by the awkwardness and shyness of the gesture and the genuine affection which seems to have motivated it. By now, he is convinced that there is more to Sherlock than mere equine genetics.

At home that night, after having sent off his daily medical update on his black-coated patient to Mycroft Holmes, he types another, somewhat more sharply worded email to the same address.

 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I understand you are very busy, but I would have thought that the welfare of your horse was a matter of importance to you. And I am not referring to his physical state, which is improving daily, as evidenced by my reports. No, I am talking about his mental state. I am no psychologist, but I recognise symptoms of PTSD and depressive episodes when I see them, mostly from personal experience. Sadly, your horse seems afflicted by them as well. Since you did not reply to my list of questions concerning Sherlock’s past, there is very little I can undertake to aid him. I need to know more about him than I do, and I can only ask him so much, because communicating with him, as you can imagine, is somewhat difficult as he can’t answer directly._

_Therefore, let me ask you two questions only, and please, in the interest of your horse’s health, do consider answering them, and quickly. It really is important._

_Is Sherlock a human turned into a horse, and if yes, what brought it about and is it reversible?_

_Sincerely,_

_John Watson_

 

He clicks ‘send’, then powers down the laptop and gets ready for bed, where he lies for a long time staring at the ceiling and the faint pattern of lines and cracks in the plaster.

What if Sherlock is indeed a human? Of all the theories John has formed about the mysterious creature this, in fact, seems the most likely, biological impossibility aside. This isn’t Harry Potter or some other fantasy tale. Or is it? Perhaps he should have checked the phases of the moon. Maybe Sherlock is some kind of were-horse. Or there is indeed some scientific explanation for what happened to him. Who knows what is being researched and developed in those hushed-up facilities down in Dartmoor and elsewhere? Does he really want to know? Well, in the case of Sherlock, John does, very much so. Because if Sherlock truly used to be a human and has been turned into a horse by accident, or worse, against his will as some kind of freakish experiment, well, no wonder he’s depressed at times. John tries to imagine himself in a similar position, caught in an animal’s body but with his human conscious intact, unable to communicate properly. God, looking at the matter this way makes so much sense, so many pieces falling into place.

His heart beating excitedly, he gets up and fetches his laptop again, and propping himself up with two pillows against the headboard, he notices how he is quivering with anticipation while the computer boots up. Once he has opened a browser, John draws a deep breath, staring at the bright screen. He should have done this a while ago, he realises. Sherlock is such an unusual name, and it’s not as if John’s suspicions about his true origin have formed only now. But it’s always been too vague, John admits to himself, and a part of him was moreover afraid of finding his theory confirmed, because if it is, it will change a lot about what he always believed about the scientific world. This is the reason he hasn’t asked Sherlock outright, either. John knows he’d be ... what? If he’s completely honest with himself, he’d be disappointed to not find his theory confirmed. But if it _is_ confirmed … Well, this opens a completely new can of worms.

His hands are trembling faintly when he types Sherlock’s name into the search field. He swallows, letting out the breath he’s been holding, and clicks the enter button.

 _Ping._ He almost jumps out of his bed and throws the laptop on the floor when his mobile comes to life on the bedside table. Breathing deeply to calm himself, he picks it up. A text from Harry has arrived.

_Hi johnny, just writing to remind you that i’ve rescheduled the visit to granny for two pm tomorrow. Hope you’ll manage to get there in time, let me know if you’re delayed. You can take the tube up to south ealing and then the bus to the care home. i’ve already texted you the address. See you there, okay. Night, harry_

John frowns at the screen before switching off the mobile with a sigh. No, he hasn’t forgotten about the visit. He hadn’t been sorry when Harry had called him at the clinic on Tuesday, the usual date of her visits, because he had been swamped with work. So had she. Tomorrow Dave is supposed to be back at the RSPCA, meaning John should be able to leave after covering lunch break, but he’d rather spend his free afternoon with Sherlock. Then again ... well, he does feel bad about not having seen his grandmother for so long, and although the visit is not going to be pleasant only, he feels duty-bound to not let Harry down again. Part of him looks forward to actually seeing his granny again, another dreads the visit. In his memories, she is still bright-eyed and witty and fairly fit, but according to what Harry described, age and dementia have changed her. Well, tomorrow he’s going to see for himself. Maybe he should bring her some flowers. She always loved them.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, then shifts his attention back to the laptop. Google has brought up a number of results. Sherlock as a surname seems not as uncommon as John believed. There are Facebook sites, and ads for businesses. He licks his lips and starts to chew on the inside of his cheek. How to narrow the search, because like this ... well, there are just too many obviously unrelated entries.

On a whim, he types ‘sherlock’ and ‘science’. This brings up a much narrower selection of articles. The first is a reference to Cambridge University and an anthology of scientific articles published by CUP a few years ago. One article seems to be a study of tobacco ash, written by a William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

The surname causes John to blanch. _Oh my God,_ he thinks, staring at the screen. _He didn’t even lie, the bastard._ He tries to recall every word Mycroft Holmes said to him concerning his horse ... or is Sherlock even his horse? What if he’s ... well, Mr. Holmes isn’t old enough to be his father, surely, but brother? Sherlock said he had a brother. _He used to like oat biscuits when he was younger. Oh shit, oh shit._

In a feverish haste, John returns to the Google page and clicks on the second entry, which leads to a website called The Science of Deduction, devised by no other than Sherlock Holmes in person, who calls himself a consulting detective and warns people about to commission him not to be boring. The introduction comes across as arrogant if not downright rude (if eloquently worded), and the short list of cases John finds described in detail are fascinating, yes, even thrilling and exciting if not for the dry and overly scientific wording, including sentences that would cover more than a page in any ordinary paperback. There is a message-board, too. It hasn’t been frequented a lot, and most conversations end with Sherlock giving a snarky or even insulting remark. He seems to believe that most people are either imbeciles or mere morons, and doesn’t hesitate to tell them so.

Thinking back about his earliest encounters with horse Sherlock (if indeed the two are the same creature), John thinks he noticed a certain resemblance. Of course the Frisian wasn’t able to call him an idiot, but some of the glances he gave John seemed to say just that.

The last of Sherlock’s entries on the message-board dates from about a week ago. Some woman asked him whether he could find her lost dog, and he shot her down viciously, telling her to ask her fiancé and have a good look round the garden, especially under the newly planted rosebushes.

 _No wonder his only friend as a kid was a dog,_ thinks John, remembering Mr. Holmes’ words. It all fits. Or does it? Is he reading too much into the matter? He bookmarks the page and decides to take his laptop to Sunny Meadows with him the next day, to show Sherlock the site and ask for confirmation whether it was indeed designed and maintained by him.

Regardless of the question whether Sherlock Holmes is indeed the same creature currently residing in Clara’s stable, the internet persona seems to have acquired some small fame recently. John finds a couple of news articles about the consulting detective aiding Scotland Yard in some of their more complicated cases, ranging from theft to art heists to murder. John cannot help being impressed. Whoever this Sherlock Holmes is, he sounds like a fascinating if rather unpleasant fellow. Given the gentle, awkward affection horse Sherlock tends to bestow on John – infrequently, but it’s undeniably there – doubts creep up in John. But who knows. Perhaps having been turned into a horse, being unable to properly communicate and depending on others to feed him has somehow mellowed Sherlock, like in the fairy-tale _The Beauty and the Beast._

 _Well, that would make me the Beauty, wouldn’t it?_ thinks John round a yawn. Search as he might, he hasn’t been able to find a photograph of Sherlock Holmes linked to any of the articles that mention the consulting detective. It’s almost two already, and John has to get up early the next morning. He powers down the laptop, but lies awake for another half hour thinking about what he has just read. He cannot wait to see Sherlock again, and finally check his theories.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John doesn’t sleep well that night, plagued by strange dreams of talking animals, and of Sherlock being trapped in a wire snare, struggling to break free and imploring John to cut him loose. John wakes up entangled in his blanket, sweaty and agitated.

A check of his mobile reveals that no reply from Mycroft Holmes has miraculously arrived over night. Frustrated about the obstinate silence, John sends an angry text:

_Mr. Holmes, I understand that you are busy, but a mere yes or no as a reply to my last enquiry would suffice. It would help me greatly in dealing with Sherlock to know who or what I am indeed dealing with. Therefore, I ask one more question: are the person maintaining the Science of Deduction website and the horse I am treating at the moment the same person? J. Watson._

He tries not to check his phone on his way to work. The clinic is full again, which suffices to take his mind off the matter of Sherlock for a while, although it tends to return to the Frisian in-between patients. With each passing hour, John’s apprehension rises. He nearly pounces on his phone when it announces that a text has arrived after he has ushered out old Mrs. Tanner with her monster of a cat.

_Dr. Watson, my apologies for the delay. Well done. I did not expect you to reach this conclusion so quickly, if, admittedly, at all. Yes, the consulting detective and the horse are indeed the same person. As to how the transformation was achieved, we do not yet know, but we are looking into the matter. I need not stress the fact that it must remain a secret, as there is reason to believe that whoever did this to Sherlock does not have his best interests at heart. But to provide you with a broader understanding of what (and who) you are dealing with, some additional information will be forwarded to you. I hope it will answer some of your questions. Regards, M. Holmes_

Leaning heavily against the table, John runs a hand through his hair and over his face.

“Jesus,” he mutters softly, “it’s true then.”

He is barely able to concentrate on his next patient, and is highly tempted to cancel his appointment with his sister in order to rush to Sunny Meadows right away, but then he receives a text from Harry asking him to get some flowers, and he sighs and texts back that yes, he’s already planned to do so.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He is so lost in thought that after buying a small bouquet of freesias, anemones and buttercups which he recalls his granny always loved, he barely notices the sleek black car following him to the Tube station. Only when it cuts across him at a pedestrian crossing and halts directly in front of him does he look up, feeling a new wave of apprehension. The driver’s window opens, and Anthea nods to him.

“Hello, Dr. Watson, care for a lift? There is an envelope for you on the back seat. Barton Manor Residence, Ealing, isn’t it?"

Drawing a deep breath, John clambers inside. He doesn’t even marvel anymore how she knows where he’s heading. Likely they’re monitoring his text messages. There is nobody else in the car but for Anthea.

“Your boss still busy, then?” asks John as he fastens the seatbelt, wondering for a brief moment whatever Harriet is going to think when he arrives at the care home in a jaguar, driven by a fierce-looking chauffeur.

“Always,” Anthea replies, her tone indicating that she is not interested in a conversation. Neither is John, if he is honest, because his eyes have fallen on a plain manilla envelope lying on the seat next to him.

Gingerly, as if afraid that it is going to explode, he picks it up and opens it. It contains what looks like a couple of medical reports, a CV, and most importantly, an A4 colour photograph. John swallows as he studies it, his heart beating almost painfully.

The photo shows the bust of a man in his late twenties or early thirties standing in front of what looks like a brick wall. It’s difficult to tell his exact age, however, because of the mop of dark curls adorning his head giving him a decidedly Byronic look, and making him seem younger than his actual age, John reckons. He is attired in a dark wool coat with the collar turned up dramatically, and a blue scarf. Wind is tousling the curls, and he looks pensive, his pale face with its high cheekbones and full lips unusual in its proportions. He’s not conventionally handsome, John decides, his face long and indeed rather horsey, he thinks with a smile. Yet striking, keen intelligence is evident in his eyes. And the eyes, dear God, the eyes – John recognises them. They are the same light grey-blue colour as horse Sherlock’s, down to the golden speck above the pupil of the right one.

John swallows around the lump in his throat. “How is this possible?” he asks hoarsely.

Anthea makes a noncommittal sound from the driver’s seat. “I am afraid we do not know yet. Mr. Holmes is looking into the matter personally with the help of a number of eminent scientists, and Sherlock himself may know or remember some things, too, although as yet he has declined to reveal them to us. Perhaps you will be luckier.”

John nods, gazing at the photo thoughtfully. “Is it reversible? The transformation?”

Anthea shrugs. “We hope that Sherlock himself retains some knowledge about what happened to him, although it is possible that his short term memory has been affected by the transformation and the ensuing trauma. Actually, Mr. Holmes would like to charge you with looking into the matter and trying to gather as much information as possible about what Sherlock remembers. Your reports indicate that you managed to gain his trust, not a mean feat even if he were human-bodied still. Do you get the impression that Sherlock’s mind and conscious are still human?”

John nods thoughtfully, then confirms it vocally. “That’s what made him seem to unusual right from the start. He didn’t behave like any horse I’ve ever encountered before, although he does have some ... er ... horsey traits.”

“Do you have reason to believe that those have increased in recent days?”

John frowns. “Do you mean if he’s gotten more horse-like and lost some of his human markers?” A tiny alarm bell starts ringing in the back of his head. “Is this what you fear, you and Mr. Holmes and the scientists? That Sherlock will revert more and more to behaving like a horse and forgetting his human origin? That eventually, he’ll be only horse, and no longer able to be turned back, if that’s possible at all?”

Anthea sighs. “I will not deny that the concern is there. His blood and tissue samples are still being analysed to try and determine how his DNA has been affected, and what might have caused the transformation. So far without success. More samples will likely be required, so you may have to procure them. But yes, admittedly the possibility is there.”

John swallows, thinking back over the past few days. “Due to work commitments, I didn’t spend as much time with him as I would have liked,” he admits. “But I can’t say I noticed any changes in that respect, other than that he finally started eating a little hay and some oats after a lot of coaxing and some mild blackmail. Didn’t seem to relish it, though. He prefers human food still. Also, I tried to keep his human mind busy with providing him with loads of newspapers, and by talking to him when I was there. Not sure if that helped if he’s really undergoing a process of complete transformation, but I could imagine that it does. Now that I know what to look for, I’ll monitor him more carefully. Hopefully, I’ll be able to spend the weekend with him, too.”

Anthea nods. “Thank you. Mr. Holmes wishes to express his thanks as well.”

John draws a deep breath, before remarking on her words. “He’s listening in on this conversation, isn’t he?” he states dryly.

In the rear mirror, Anthea gives him a wry smile. “Naturally.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The rest of the drive commences in silence. John has a lot to think about. Again and again he gazes at the photograph and reads through the information about Sherlock. Not surprisingly, he seems to hail from some rather posh background, or at least has enjoyed a posh education. After attending an ordinary primary school where apparently he spent an extra year, he was sent on to Harrow where he was suggested for a musical scholarship because of his proficiency with the violin ( _that’s why he’s so partial to violin music,_ thinks John), but which he declined. He went on to Cambridge, where he read Chemistry, graduating with a Masters degree and apparently beginning a PhD but never finishing it. John remembers the anthology he found online and Sherlock’s article about tobacco ash, which appeared to be based more in forensic science than traditional chemistry. John wonders whether Sherlock dabbled in some experiments that ultimately led to his transformation, but there is no evidence of any of that in the files. He did seem to have had some issues with drug addiction, and spent a short time in rehab before starting to collaborate with the Metropolitan Police. His criminal record shows one instance of possession of cocaine, two of breaking and entering, and one of impeding the cause of justice. The latter three were cleared after apparently evidence was found that they in fact helped convict criminals, one of them a mass murderer, and another a high-profile celebrity and a pedophile.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Anthea stops the car round the corner of the residence, and John is grateful because like this, he won’t have to explain his means of transportation to Harry. His sister is waiting for him outside the entrance, brightening a little when she sees the flowers in his hand.

“Oh, you remembered,” she says, and John feels compelled to roll his eyes.

“I’m not a complete social write-off, you know,” he returns.

Thankfully, Harriet doesn’t reply when together they enter the modernised Victorian villa. John appreciates the fact that the interior doesn’t smell too much the way he’s always associated with these places, and that it looks rather cheerful, too, with colourful children’s drawings adorning the walls and lots of plants. A group of residents is sitting in the café playing cards, and two more are marching up and down a corridor with their walking frames. The feel of the place changes a little once they reach the unit where their grandmother is accommodated, since it seems to be reserved for those suffering from dementia and other serious ailments of age. The ward gives more the impression of a hospital than a residence.

Granny’s room is not too bad, however. Despite the accoutrements of a geriatric ward, it has a nice view over a little park-like garden. John recognises several photographs of family members, books and paintings scattered about the room. Granny is sitting near the window looking out, and she doesn’t react to them entering. Harry addresses her and she turns. _Outwardly,_ thinks John, _she hasn’t changed much._ She has shrunken a little and has lost weight in general, but she looks unexpectedly fit. The impression lasts only a moment, however, until John draws closer and sees her eyes. She doesn’t recognise Harry or him. Harry begins to talk to her, sitting down next to her and holding and massaging her hands, and slowly, recognition dawns. There is a small spark when John is mentioned, but Granny doesn’t appear to be able to link the image of ‘her Johnny’ with the man in front of her. She likes the flowers, though, which John puts in a vase and places on her bedside table, and begins to tell them how as a little girl, she used to pick cowslips and buttercups in the meadows and sell the bunches to passers by for a few pennies.

They spend about an hour with their grandmother. Most of the time Harriet talks, sometimes John, sometimes Granny, but rarely to them, reminiscing about the past and people long dead. However, there are moments of clarity, when she actually lives in the presence and seems to know who she is talking to, but these are brief and almost immediately forgotten.

All in all it’s a humbling and saddening experience. John is silent as they exit the manor, avoiding to meet Harry’s eyes despite knowing that her gaze is upon him. Thankfully, and with rather uncharacteristic tact and insight, she refrains from commenting. When they have reached the bus stop John turns to face her.

“I know I haven’t really ... you know, pulled my share in this, but I am grateful for what you have done. I really am.”

She nods curtly. “Thanks. I hope you’ll show your gratefulness in taking your share of duties more seriously now. How long are you going to stay in town, anyway?”

John shrugs. “I’ve no immediate plans for leaving. And the position Clara’s offered ... it doesn’t sound too bad. At least for the moment I’m not exactly suited for dangerous field work, anyway. An alternative place to stay would be good in the longish term, but for now the small thing I’ve got in Brixton will have to do. It’s not that I could possibly afford anything grander or more centrally located, anyway.”

Harry nods sagely, and the short bus ride to the tube station they spend bitching about the London rental market and exorbitant house prices, one of the few topics, it seems, they are completely d’accord. They part, if not amicably, but peacefully. Harry mentions she’s going to be spending the weekend at Sunny Meadows to put some more work into her shop.

“Say hello to Sherlock from me,” she tells John with a wink and a wave.

“I will,” he replies, watching her board the train. “See you tomorrow.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The journey to Putney John spends deep in thought again, mostly about his grandmother for a change, and also about age and ageing in general. He wonders if he’s ever going to even reach his granny’s age, and if yes, if it’s going to be something to aspire to in the first place. Who’ll be looking after him then? Will he have children, grandchildren even? He’s always had the vague idea of marrying and raising a family at some point. But this point, if he’s honest, is almost passed. He’s in his early forties. If he really wanted to have children, he’d better start now. And it’s not as if there’s a willing partner in sight. And even if there were ... looking back over his relationship history, John knows he’s never managed to maintain any over a long period of time. And he never really minded. They were fun while they lasted, the breakups never were too bad. Even now, the thought about settling down for good doesn’t hold much appeal. Perhaps with the right partner ...

He snorts to himself as he watches a couple of teenagers cuddle and kiss on the seats opposite him, totally absorbed in one another. At the moment, he spends more time with animals than people, and the strangest horse he’s ever encountered foremost.

Sherlock. John withdraws his file from his rucksack again and stares at the photograph. Undeniably, Sherlock is the most interesting thing that has happened to him in a long while. He is intrigued by the mystery surrounding the horse. _The man,_ he reminds himself. _Sherlock is a human being, albeit four-legged and a bit furry at the moment._

Suddenly, the train doesn’t seem to be moving fast enough. John feels he needs to see Sherlock immediately, convince himself that he is real. For a moment, his thoughts return to the matter of old age, and he smiles wryly to himself. If all things go arse-up and Sherlock is doomed to spend the rest of his life in a horse’s body, John suddenly knows with surprising clarity that he wouldn’t mind staying with him to look after him. Perhaps they could get Mycroft Holmes to buy them a small farm or cottage somewhere, and they could live out their lives bickering over biscuits, listening to violin music and reading scientific articles together.

John catches himself smiling at the thought.

 

-<o>-

 

John almost jogs the distance from the tube station to the animal shelter, and arrives there sweaty and out of breath. The car park is full again and to his dismay he recognises the vehicles of the three new horses’ owners. He hopes to manage to evade them, because right now he cannot spare any time for chats about over-strained ligatures and mild colics. He needs to see Sherlock, the sooner, the better.

Nobody accosts him as he rushes through the stables. He ignores the people milling about there, steering straight towards Sherlock’s stall. To find it empty.

Staring at the open door and deserted box in shock, John feels a wave of nausea hitting him. He feels faint and sick for a moment, trying to figure out what happened. There is no sign of a struggle or of Sherlock breaking free. The heap of hay and straw likely covering Sherlock’s newspapers is lying virtually undisturbed, and neither the water nor the oats bucket have been overturned. Someone must have fetched Sherlock, then. Has his brother decided that he’s no longer safe here and brought him away? But if so, why not inform John when only a few hours ago he rode in his bloody car being updated on Sherlock’s true identity?

John jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and spins round forcefully to behold Hal, who is wearing riding gear for a change. He looks surprised at John’s violent reaction and takes a surprised step back, withdrawing the hand.

“Sorry for startling you, Doc.”

“What happened to Sherlock?” John fires back in reply, not even trying to his anxiety.

Hal smiles. “Oh, I brought him outside. Himself is frolicking on the meadow. Or sulking, rather. I thought he’d appreciate fresh air, sunshine and new grass some more. But he was making such a racket this morning when I took off the poultice and the bandages. Neighing all the time and blowing snot into my hair that I thought some exercise would do him good. He’s been cooped up in here far too long. His leg looks much better, too, as do his stitches. He walked all right when he paced in the box, and even though he still favours it when he stands, when I led him outside, he didn’t show signs of lameness.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, John looks at Hal in wonder. “He suffered himself to be led outside without fuss?”

Hal shrugs. “Well, there was some issue with getting him to wear a halter, but strangely, when I talked to him and explained that without it, he’d have to stay inside, he reluctantly let me put it on him. He managed to get rid of it out on the meadow, though. Don’t ask me how he did it, the crafty bugger. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. Looked a bit bored out there when I left him, and separated himself from the other horses immediately. You can go through the back door over there. It’s right behind the stable.”

John thanks him and hurries out of the building.

 

**- <o>-**

 

At first, John does not see Sherlock on the sunny, dandelion-spotted meadow. Gonzo is standing at the fence and enjoys being petted by two young boys and fed dry bread. Some of the ponies are ambling up to them, likely in the hope of snatching a treat as well. Farther away, Tequila’s coppery coat is gleaming in the sunlight, a brilliant contrast to the emerald grass and flowering apple-trees. John cranes his neck, and lets out a low whistle of relief when amidst the white- and pink flowering trees and yellow flowers, he spots a patch of darkness, like a black hole in all the bloom. Sherlock is standing in the shadow of one of the trees with his head down. John can’t see clearly whether he’s actually grazing or simply sniffing at the various grasses and flowers. _Likely the latter,_ he thinks.

Fetching the folder from his rucksack, he unhooks two of the wires of the electric fence and climbs inside, patting Gonzo’s broad neck when the gelding sniffs at him. Weaving through the ponies, he quickly approaches Sherlock’s shady corner. The Frisian seems lost in contemplation, or else he finds the study of the meadow’s flora to be of genuine interest. He looks up, however, when John calls him, and even steps out of the tree shade and walks a few steps into the meadow. John is pleased to see confirmed what Hal said about Sherlock’s recovery. Apart from a slight irregularity to his gait, both of his injured legs seem greatly improved, and he appears to be in no or only very little discomfort.

However, as Sherlock draws closer and is able to recognise John’s expression, he stops abruptly. John sees him tense. Sherlock lifts his head high, his ears pricked up and his eyes fixed on John, likely sensing his agitation and fighting his equine instinct of flight.

“Hi, Sherlock,” John greets him, hoping the equally excited and apprehensive tremor in his voice isn’t too noticeable.

Sherlock snorts softly. It almost sounds like a question. John halts at a little distance from him, opens the folder and removes the photograph. He stares at it for a moment, then drawing a deep breath, he holds it up for Sherlock to see.

“I received this today, after doing a bit of online research yesterday,” he explains, watching Sherlock stare at the print, standing very still, the only thing moving about him his mane and tail when they are tangled by the breeze. John cannot be certain about what his expression means.

He bites his lip and swallows, turning the picture round again to look at the dark-haired man. _There is a resemblance,_ he thinks, _and it extends beyond the eyes._ “This … was this, I mean, is this … you?” he asks quietly.

For a considerable time, Sherlock shows no reaction apart from a faint rippling of his coat to get rid of a fly trying to land on him. Then, suddenly, Sherlock shifts his eyes to John’s face. The gaze he gives him is difficult to read, and it may be imagination on John’s side, but to him the stallion looks deeply sad. This impression is supported by Sherlock turning round and walking back under his tree.

John swallows, running a hand through his hair. _Oh shit,_ he thinks, _I’ve clearly upset him. And no wonder. How would you like being turned into an animal, with the option of having to stay that way for the rest of your life?_

Returning the photograph to the file and stowing it away, he slowly follows Sherlock, chewing on his lower lip as he considers his next words.

“I’m sorry to spring it onto you like that, Sherlock,” he says gravely when he has reached the tree. “And I apologise if I’ve upset you. That wasn’t my intention. But … I started to wonder, and once I’d found your website, I simply had to make sure. Your brother finally got off his arse and replied to my enquiries, and then Anthea brought me the file. Listen, I didn’t mean to do things behind your back. I just … I had to know. And I want to help you. I don’t believe you’ve been reading all those articles just because you were bored in your stall. You’re trying to find a way to turn you back, aren’t you? And if that’s the case, I want to help you. Sherlock, come on, look at me. Are you upset that I found out, or that I asked your brother for help?”

Still standing with his rear towards John, Sherlock snorts. To John, it sounds resentful, and he therefore concludes that Mycroft Holmes’ involvement is the sore spot.

Stepping closer to Sherlock, he gently lays a hand on his back. “Hey, come on,” he says, noting that Sherlock doesn’t flinch away and even seems to be swaying a little closer to him, so that they stand side by side. John extends his arm over his withers and claps his neck, like he would embrace his football mates after a well-played match.

“It’s not all bad, you know,” John continues encouragingly. “We’ll find a solution, you’ll see. From what I’ve read, you’re a rather brilliant scientist, and now that you’ve got yourself a willing pair of hands, and feet for the legwork, I believe we can get a lot of things done. I have access to a lab at the clinic. I can research things for you, and you do the brainwork and put it all together. You’ve got a larger one, anyway, as a horse. Brain, I mean.”

He bumps Sherlock’s side gently, upon which the other snickers softly. “We’re communicating rather well already, despite you not being able to talk. I’ll look into the matter, if you want. Perhaps there’s a system of signs we can use, like they developed for Stephen Hawking when he was no longer able to talk. Perhaps I can get something set up on my laptop. How does that sound?”

Sherlock snorts, still not looking at John. However, standing close to him, the doctor feels how the tension leaves the horse’s body. He squeezes his shoulder amicably, hoping to convey reassurance and friendship, while at the same time enjoying the warmth of Sherlock’s coat.

“Look at it this way, Sherlock. Who else is given this unique opportunity? You can experience things nobody else can. You can write a bloody PhD about it once you’re … well, you again. You’ve got four legs, for God’s sake. That must count for something. And a tail. How cool is that?”

John has to bite his tongue while uttering the last sentence. He doesn’t want to tease Sherlock and upset him further, but apparently his words are just right. Sherlock turns round and lifting his head high and somewhat haughtily, he looks down at John, who raises his eyebrows in challenge. Then the corners of Sherlock’s mouth begin to twitch, almost as if he’s trying to smile. He lets out an almighty snort, spraying John, then nudges him with his head.

John laughs, and reaches out to rub his muzzle. “I take that as a sign you’re no longer angry, yes? All right, let me get you your last antibiotics jab, and some cake from the main house for both of us, and then we’ll find ourselves a nice corner round here were there’s hopefully some wifi and see if you can recall how you ended up in this shape, okay? I brought my computer, so I can write it down, and we can look at some more articles online if you want.”

Sherlock nudges him again and snickers, and to John’s ears he sounds excited and greatly cheered. John pats his neck again, before, smiling, he sets out to fetch the cake. There’s work to be done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter:  
> 


	6. Richmond Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more for all your support. This chapter wasn't originally intended to be this long, but then several things needed to be added, so here you are. Also, it has three illustrations instead of one.

They spend most of the weekend and half the following week outside. After some walking around searching and trying for connection with his laptop, John finds a sheltered spot near the main house with a strong wifi signal. The weather has improved. It’s mostly sunny and even relatively warm, with spring rampant in the meadow. The first butterflies are out, large whites and bright yellow common brimstones. A couple of blue tits has built a nest in one of the apple-trees, and in the evenings a blackbird sings high up on the tall ash trees bordering the meadow.

John has procured a chair and table, as well as an external battery pack for his laptop, and set up a makeshift office on the pasture with sheep and cattle grazing next to him. In the afternoons, when he has looked after his patients at the clinic and Sunny Meadows, he sits with the laptop open and newsprint spread about him, and with Sherlock standing behind him reading over his shoulder, sometimes snorting or snickering, or blowing into John’s hair to communicate his desire for a turn of page, some faster scrolling, or a click on another link.

John knows their research arrangement looks weird for all around. Clara asked him about it, and he told her that he’s working on some scientific articles while reading up on the latest developments at the same time. When Hal enquires why Sherlock hasn’t been put on the horse meadow, John explains that he doesn’t get on with the other horses and is therefore better put on the sheep pasture to let him catch some fresh air and sunshine, and provide some opportunity for exercise.

“And Sherlock’s helping you with you research, isn’t he?” Clara asks with a wink when she comes over with a cup of tea for John.

“Of course,” replies John, grinning. Clara leaves it at that, for which he is grateful. He asked Sherlock whether he wants the others to know who he really is. Sherlock indicated no, which doesn’t surprise John. He wouldn’t want having been turned into an animal broadcast around, either, particularly because so far there seems to be virtually no information about what caused it. Sherlock doesn’t seem to remember, or if he does, he cannot communicate it.

At one point, John asks him directly during one of their rounds of the meadow. Whenever John feels his back and shoulder tense and ache from too much stooping over the laptop screen, he has taken to walking a few paces, sometimes limping, sometimes managing to move fairly smoothly. At first, Sherlock simply stays at the table and continues to read, but after the third time he joins John until it becomes a habit, so that by Sunday afternoon, they have walked a considerable length together, John talking quietly or asking questions, and Sherlock replying as best he can.

His gait is almost regular again, and when John asks him about the state of his legs, he indicates that he’s no longer in pain. To John it feels extraordinary to have one of his patients actually reply to his enquiries. He wonders what the other animals he treated were thinking at the time, and if perhaps he could have helped them better had he done something else.

John has monitored Sherlock’s improvement with a critical eye. He is pleased that he seems to be healing so quickly, but hopes Sherlock isn’t overdoing things. He appears to be the type to not pay much heed to his health, if his medical history both as a human and a horse are anything to go by.

As they are walking together now, John studies Sherlock, his gaze down on the various grasses and flowers of the meadow. Now and again he sniffs at them or even bites off a leave or bloom to chew on thoughtfully. “Were you working on a case when it happened?” John wants to know.

Sherlock gives a startled snort. Apparently John’s question pulled him out of his thoughts. He looks up at the doctor and makes another of his complicated gestures which John has come to associate with a shrug.

“Don’t remember, eh?”

Sherlock nods. John’s previous questions concerning his transformation have been met with similar responses. In all likelihood Anthea’s theory is true, and either because of the inherent trauma or some substance or medication that caused the change Sherlock’s short term memory, or at least his recollections pertaining to the event, have been affected.

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound and bites off a dandelion flower, which he eats. John smiles at this. Sherlock has taken to eating more ‘horse-food’ ever since he’s been brought outside, and appears to be actively enjoying the different tastes and textures of plants and grasses. John is rather certain he is indexing them in his brain, perhaps even testing them for toxicity. He decides to bring him some more plants to nibble at. He’d also like to take him outside for more extended walks and a change of scenery.

He runs the thought past Sherlock who looks up interestedly. “We’ll have to organise a few things first, though, Sherlock,” John cautions, noticing his sudden enthusiasm. “If I’m to take you outside, you’ll have to at least wear a headcollar, and I’ll have to lead you on a rope.”

Sherlock snorts disdainfully. “I know, I know,” says John. “I know you hate the halter, and that it chafes and everything. And I also know that likely I wouldn’t be able to hold you back were you determined to run away. Also, it’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re a clever person, and crafty, too, but I don’t think you’d break your promise once given, and I wouldn’t let you out without one. But remember what happened in London. If you were seen walking around here without any signs that you belonged to somebody, or that someone was looking after you, there’d be trouble, and you know it. And we don’t want your brother barging in again, do we?”

Sherlock nods, looking chastened and at least partly convinced. John claps his neck amicably. “Okay, great. I’ll remove your stitches later and check your injuries. They’ve been healing very well, but I’d like to make sure that you’re up to the challenge of a longer expedition. I only have the early shift at the clinic tomorrow, and should be here around two. The weather is supposed to stay fair, so you can have a look at the map later and decide where you want to go. Look for green bridle-ways. You’re not shod, and so want to avoid longer walks on hard tarmac. Unless you want me to ask Clara when the farrier is due next. They should be round soon, because the donkeys’ hooves need looking after.”

Sherlock neighs in protest, and John smiles. “Thought so. However, if you stay horse-shaped for much longer, you’re going to have to endure a visit to have your hooves seen to. Think of it as a mani- or pedicure.”

Sherlock glares at him. John laughs. “Didn’t have them as a man, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Me neither. Had a girlfriend once who offered because she was doing them professionally, but somehow she never got round to actually doing me. My feet, I mean,” he adds with a blush. He notices how Sherlock is watching him intently. A thought strikes him, and a question he realises he should have considered asking before.

He halts, looking at Sherlock who stops, too, and turns to him, gazing at him expectantly. “Er ... Sherlock ... sorry that I never asked before. I kinda assumed your brother had taken care of it if there was need, but ... is there someone who should be informed that you’re ... well .... Perhaps not that you’re a horse right now. But ... out of the country or something? They’d be wondering that you’ve not been returning emails or answering calls and all that.”

He licks his lip. “So ... is there someone? A significant other, I mean. Wife, girlfriend? God, do you have kids, perhaps?”

Sherlock lifts his head a little higher, gazing down at John with an expression of surprise, amusement and also slight irritation, then he snorts and shakes his head, which John takes as a resounding  _ no _ to all three options, as well as a statement of complete lack of interest in these matters. 

He nods, feeling strangely relieved, and not just for the obvious reason of loved ones not knowing about Sherlock’s fate and worrying about him, but also on a more private level – which surprises him. Mycroft mentioned that Sherlock didn’t have any friends as a child, and his file indicates that at school and university, too, he was a bit of a loner who didn’t engage in any social activities or join any societies apart from a brief association with the Harrods School Orchestra where he didn’t endure long. No science or debating clubs at Harrow, no drama or acting company. No rowing or any sports association at Cambridge, although Sherlock appears to have taken fencing lessons for a while. Then again, the personality John found described online and in the newspaper articles about Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes does not exactly invite a great deal of friendship. But romantic interest? Intelligence can be incredibly sexy, and Sherlock’s looks, unusual though they are, are surely striking and handsome, too.  _ Perhaps he just isn’t into birds, _ thinks John.  _ Oh. Ah ... right ... okay. Should have had the idea sooner, _ he realises.

“Er, right, okay. Got a boyfriend, then?” adds John somewhat tentatively, feeling himself flush. “Which is fine, by the way,” he adds quickly, which, however, doesn’t reduce his embarrassment.

Sherlock neighs as if in protest once again.

“Stupid remark, I know,” John apologises a bit sheepishly. “Sorry. So you’ve got a boyfriend? Gosh, poor bloke. God, sorry, that sounds so wrong. I don’t mean he’s a poor fellow because he’s your boyfriend. I mean … Does he know something? Anything?”

Sherlock frowns at John, then shakes his head vigorously. “Shit, Sherlock, want me to do anything? Contact him somehow? He must be worried sick.”

Shaking his head again and snorting impatiently, Sherlock moves towards John and rubs his head against his shoulder. Surprised, John takes a step back to keep his balance.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You want me to help and inform him?”

Shake of head.

“He knows already?”

Another shake accompanied by another frustrated snort and rub of head.

John runs a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. “Er ...?”

Sherlock makes something with his eyes which almost looks like an eye-roll. John assumes he’s being stupid again. He bites his lip. “You don’t have a boyfriend?” he ventures.

Sherlock nods, and there it is again, the warm rush of relief. John smiles, rubbing his withers apologetically. He shouldn’t be so glad to hear about Sherlock’s lack of romantic attachment to anybody. It’s inherently wrong and rather selfish, and moreover off the point. Sherlock’s certainly got other worries right now, and so does John.

In fact, it’s been some time since John has had a relationship, even a short fling. The thought of romance hasn’t occurred to him for a while, if he’s honest, and that’s been okay. He’s had other priorities while out in the wilderness helping endangered animals and trying to stay ahead of the poachers and their tricks. And then he got shot, and the wound got infected and he was shipped first to Vladivostok and then back to England, and the thought of chatting up anybody, even someone like Sarah at the clinic who is certainly intelligent and funny, competent and good-looking hasn’t held much appeal.

And Sherlock ... well, John cannot be certain because he knows so little about him, but he doesn’t come across as the most social of people. Recalling what he has read about Sherlock’s vitae and documented interests, he assumes that Sherlock doesn’t have much patience for others.  _ Perhaps, _ he thinks,  _ I can count myself fortunate that he endures me around and even seems to enjoy my company. But on the other hand I feed and groom him and endure him whims, so it evens out.  _

“Sorry, Sherlock,” he tells his companion, “sometimes I’m a bit slow. So you’re unattached. Like me. Good. That’s great.”

Noticing Sherlock’s keen glance, he stutters, “I mean ... it’s fine. It’s all fine. Comforting, too, to know that there’s nobody worrying about your absence and silence. Which makes me think ... if you want to check your emails, or even send one, I’m sure we could arrange that. I assume you have an account you can access via a browser, right? Okay. Remember your password, too? Excellent. So let’s go and ... hey, wait for me.”

Sherlock has turned and trotted off towards their table. John hurries after him as best he can, watching his movement critically since so far they’ve kept to moderate walks only, and he hasn’t seen Sherlock run before. But Sherlock’s gait is smooth and regular, and indeed rather elegant in the way he lifts his hooves high like a horse in dressage, arching his neck and holding his head proudly. John wonders whether he’s always run like this, or if it’s something inherent in his new body and confirmation. After all, Frisians are known for exquisite gaits with smooth rhythm and high, elegant action of limb.

What strikes John even more than the splendid sight of Sherlock trotting through the flowering meadow is the clear indication of how he appears to be enjoying the exercise. Cursing his dodgy leg, John wishes he could run like this, too.

Sherlock beats him to the table, and is circling it impatiently until John arrives. The doctor frowns at the keyboard, then looks up at Sherlock. “This is going to be tricky. Or ... wait a moment. Do you think you can operate a pen or pencil with your mouth and write down the address, and perhaps your login and password, too? If you trust me enough to let me know them, that is.”

Sherlock nods, and John hands him a pencil. Gingerly, he picks up with his muzzle. Writing is difficult and takes several attempts, some contortion on Sherlock’s side, and some guesswork by John what the squiggly lines actually signify, but they manage to find Sherlock’s email account this way and even log in.

His inbox lists several unread messages, most, it seems, by prospective clients. Sherlock skims through them quickly, snorting impatiently for John to close one and open another. He reads the messages from Scotland Yard more carefully, though. A fair number were sent by a Detective Inspector Lestrade who John remembers from the articles he read online.

It looks like Sherlock was working on a case involving the death of a lecturer at UCL. The body of a young woman was found floating in Regent’s Canal, but she didn’t drown but supposedly been killed by a mix of toxic chemicals. That, at least, is the latest update in the investigation as evidenced by the emails. Lestrade has attached the toxicology report, and there is another email from a person called Molly who works at St. Bart’s hospital and is on first name terms with Sherlock. John gathers that she does post-mortems, and has analysed the stomach contents as well as blood and tissue samples of the deceased. The investigation is not classified as a murder, although all involved seem to suspect that the woman fell victim to a crime.

The most recent email in the inbox is from DI Lestrade again, dating from about a week ago, the last in a line of several where he inquired after Sherlock’s whereabouts, stating that he has been talking to his landlady and she has no idea where he was. Lestrade is wondering and even worrying why Sherlock is neither replying to his mails or text messages, nor picking up the phone. Lestrade’s wording is getting more and more curt and angry, coupled with expressed disappointment about Sherlock’s apparent lack of interest in the case which he describes as “at least an eight”, and the threat of not involving Sherlock in further investigations. The last email reads differently.

 

From: g.lestrade@met.police.uk

To: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

_Sherlock,_

_listen, I’m sorry for my earlier mails. And better just delete my last five or so text messages, too. We’re stuck with the investigation, but I won’t bother you with it now. First you get well again, okay. Your brother told me about your accident. Hope your eyes will recover fully. If there’s anything we can do for your, let us know. Even Anderson expressed concern, said crime-scenes weren’t the same without you complaining about shoddy forensics. If we can do anything to alleviate the boredom you’re no doubt suffering, send word, if you can._

_G. Lestrade_

 

John leans back in the chair, frowning up at Sherlock. “That case you were working on, the one with the dead lab assistant ... was she from the same lab at the college that was burgled, or broken in? The one from the online article we read on the BBC site, I mean?”

Sherlock makes his shrugging motion again, but then nods slowly. “You think so, don’t you? Do you ... want me to contact the DI, ask about whether they found out anything more? We could pretend you’re feeling better, to go with your brother’s cover story.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then nods again, and John begins to write a reply. Sherlock corrects him with snorts and gentle nudges of his head. At one point he awkwardly picks up the pencil again with his mouth and scrawls a few letters, and John changes his wording accordingly. He also introduces himself as Sherlock’s doctor who typed the message for his patient. Sherlock approves of the idea. John lets him read the email a few times over, and when Sherlock finally indicates that he is content, he sends it off.

Shortly afterwards, their studies are interrupted by the arrival of Mike Stamford with his two daughters, who wave to John excitedly from outside the fence before scrambling under the wires and dashing towards him and Sherlock. John gives his equine companion a brief glance. “Behave,” he warns him softly, causing Sherlock to snort haughtily, as if to say that he’s not a complete social imbecile.

Tilda and Annie are aptly impressed by the tall horse. With some amusement, John notices that Sherlock preens a little under their squeals of delight and  _ oohs _ and  _ aaahs _ , prancing about the sunlit meadow with his head held high, a far cry from the dishevelled, miserable creature lurking in the gloom of the stall who John encountered on his first day at Sunny Meadows.  _ Vain git, you, _ he thinks fondly, feeling relieved that Sherlock has cheered up and appears to be experiencing something positive about his current situation.

“I told you Doctor John would make him whole again,” chimes up Annie, gazing up at Sherlock with large, admiring eyes. “He really is like Black Beauty. Do you think he still hurts?” she then asks, pointing at Sherlock’s healing injuries.

“Perhaps a little, but I think he’s much better already,” John assures her.

“Can I give him a horse treat?” asks Tilda.

John shrugs. “He doesn’t generally like them, but you can try.”

Tilda beams at him, digs a treat out of the pocket of her trousers and holds it out to Sherlock on her flattened hand. Sherlock gazes at her, glowers a little, then looks at John who gives him the tiniest of nods. With an almighty snort and a shake of his mane, Sherlock gracefully picks it off her hand and chews it.

“Oh, look at that, Tilda. Lucky you,” comments John, which earns him another glare from Sherlock.

“You’ve really worked wonders with this horse, John,” says Mike appreciatively. “You’d already texted me about his improvements, but to see him in the flesh and looking this well after such a brief time. It’s a bit of a miracle. Oh, Annie, do be careful, will you? Don’t go too close.”

“He won’t harm them,” says John convincingly, watching the two girls stand in front of Sherlock and holding out another treat for him, which, however, he declines this time.

Mike watches the dark horse suspiciously. “You sure? After what he did when he arrived here and the state he was in?”

“Yes, I am sure. He’s been remarkably calm ever since he’s been allowed out. I think he was simply frightened and in pain. Once he learned that nobody here was going to harm him, he gentled almost immediately. He really is quite intelligent, you know.”

Mike nods, still watching Sherlock thoughtfully. John is tempted to tell him about how intelligent the horse-shaped creature really is, and what else is remarkable about him, but he needs to check with Sherlock first if he agrees to the revelation. John doubts he will, and understands that it’s likely better this way.

“Daddy, can we brush him?” asks Tilda. “He’s a bit dusty, and I think his coat would shine so nicely in the sun without the dirt.”

“Oh yes, oh yes, and can we braid his mane?” Annie wants to know. “Please, daddy and Doctor John. He’d be so pretty.”

John suppresses a grin and gives Sherlock an apologetic glance. “Ask him,” he says.

The girls beam and arrange themselves in front of Sherlock. “Mr. Sherlock, may we please brush your coat and braid your mane?” asks Tilda, speaking with particular formality and looking at the horse with a serious, solemn expression.

John holds his breath as he watches Sherlock, who first glowers at the children, then at John, before closing his eyes in surrender. He lets out a long-suffering snort and inclines his head.

Annie claps, and Tilda exclaims. “He said yes. Come, Annie, we’ll fetch the brushes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Later, when they are alone again and John is packing together his laptop and the newspapers, he thanks Sherlock. “For how you were with the girls. I know they were getting on your nerves, but you really made their day by letting them groom you. Did you good, too. Your coat does look very glossy now, and they were really careful with your injuries. Sorry about the mane-braiding, though. I know you hated that. I’ll take it out again when we’re in the stable, okay? Oh, and I’ll delete the photo, too, if you want. I just had to take one, and I know Mike did so, too. You just looked too adorable with the two girls styling you.”

Sherlock is watching him quietly, looking admittedly like a bit of a doll’s horse (and an idiot) with his braids, and blue ribbons and yellow dandelion dotting his dark locks.

Noticing his stillness, John straightens and turns to him fully. “What?” he asks gently. Sherlock makes a complicated movement that involves him bowing and partly averting his head, and pawing at the ground. John has come to interpret it as an expression of embarrassment, or sentiment.

John walks over to him and picking some dandelion blooms out of his mane, he gently rubs his neck. “You liked it, didn’t you? Not their chatter, perhaps, but the way they looked after you, and the fact that they considered you the greatest thing in the universe. You’ve not had much of that, have you? Neither at school, nor at uni. Perhaps not even at home, with an overbearing elder brother like Mycroft. Always been the model child, hasn’t he, and you having a hard trying to pull even in your parents’ eyes? To be honest, when I read the articles about you and had a look at your website and how you responded to clients on your message-board, I thought you were a bit of an arrogant arse. But you’re not. Or at least you’re not when you can’t talk. You’re genuinely witty and funny, and clever, of course. You’ve got this kind of wry humour that doesn’t require words. And I’ve come to like you, I really have.”

He swallows, feeling blood rush into his cheeks at the admission. Sherlock is looking at him again, first with that John interprets as a frown, then his eyes soften. John has the impression that if he could smile, he would. Presently, Sherlock shuffles closer to him and gently rubs his head against his side, not impatiently or demanding, but carefully, like an expression of affection.

John smiles. “Does that mean you like me, too, or is this a covert attempt at searching my pockets for stray biscuits?”

Sherlock has the decency to look slightly guilty as he sucks in the biscuit, and John slaps his nose playfully. “Come on, let’s get you sorted out. It’s getting cold, anyway.”

Back in the stall, it takes John half an hour to undo all the braid and pick out all the flowers. Sherlock endures the treatment quietly. John notices, however, that he stands rather close to him, and now and again sways a little so that he brushes against his front or side. Again, a feeling of warmth steals through John. It wasn’t just the biscuits, of that he is certain. Sherlock likes him, and appreciates John’s presence as much as John enjoys his. His ways of showing the sentiment are subtle and a bit awkward, but genuine. John has no doubt about that.

That night, he dreams of Sherlock again, and again he is human-shaped, only this time his head is adorned with dreadlocks with flowers stuck between the strands. He is begging John to cut off his hair so he can become a horse again.

 

**- <o>-**

 

True to his word, the following afternoon, John shows up with a headcollar and a lead rope to fetch Sherlock for their outing. Sherlock seems to have recovered from his strangely cooperative mood and is his imperious, stroppy self again. There hasn’t been a reply from Lestrade, and John has the impression Sherlock wants him to send another email, now that he has realised that he can. But John refuses.

“Likely, the poor man is busy on other cases. I know you want to learn more about this particular one, and so do I. I searched for related articles online, but couldn’t find anything new. I also looked up those poisons and substances I didn’t know, and asked Miriam who runs the lab at the clinic. She said the combination was highly unusual but shouldn’t have been deadly, at least not to a human. It would have been lethal to a dog, though. Does that help?”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully, and seems mollified and moreover distracted enough for John to slip the halter over his head.

“I had another look at the map, and thought we could go to Putney Common or Putney Heath. Okay? You may find some new botanic specimen there.”

Sherlock nods, and after John has shouldered his rucksack, he leads him out of the stall. “Remember,” he tells him softly as they pass the other boxes, most of which are empty with their usual occupants out on pasture, “don’t try anything silly or worse, dangerous. We’re going to go for a nice walk, and that’s it.”

Sherlock snorts impatiently, but doesn’t comment otherwise. They leave the animal shelter and make their way through the residential areas surrounding the green oasis towards Wimbledon and Putney Common. John remembers a visit many years ago as a child where they had a picnic on one of the meadows and climbed trees and looked for frogs in a swampy patch grown with rushes. Harry got a sunburn that day, he recalls, and he acquired three ticks, one of which was only discovered after two days. He tells Sherlock about the event, then asks if his companion has ever been to the place, which Sherlock negates.

The weather is still sunny and fairly warm, and they wander through patches of woodland where bluebells are covering the forest floors like a violet carpet, and groves of birches arrayed in light green leaves, to then cross meadows shrouded with lady’s smock and dandelion, and walk past wetlands where frogs and toads croak amidst the reeds and rushes, between tussocks of dark yellow buttercups.

Sherlock appears to be enjoying himself, looking about with interest and sniffing and tasting the various plants and flowers. It being a working day, there aren’t many people about apart from the usual joggers and dog-walkers, the latter of whom Sherlock usually gives some wide berth, particularly when the dogs are unleashed. John recalls how he was chased by dogs through Regent’s Park, and wonders whether he still retains some fears because of it. It must have been a harrowing, traumatising experience.

The other pedestrians and cyclists regard the strange duo with some interest, but nobody seems to consider the fact that a man with a slight limp is leading a horse on a lead in a public green space unusual.  _ Well,  _ thinks John wryly,  _ this is London for you. Guess I could be walking around with a giraffe and nobody would bat an eyelid. _

After walking for about two hours, he feels his limp getting worse, and he suggests they take a break. Sherlock agrees easily. John settles down on a bench under a large oak tree. They can overlook the golf course from here. Sherlock appears to have found something interesting in the lower branches of the tree and is plucking off young leaves which he brings to the bench to arrange them in a neat line. John frowns at the leaves, then at his companion, until he notices that some of the foliage appears to have been afflicted by gall wasps and other insects. He smiles fondly at his studious companion.

“Oi, Sherlock, want an apple and some bread, or are you content to eat leaves and grasses today?”

Sherlock takes the offered food when John holds it out to him, before occupying himself with his collection of greenery once more. John eats his late lunch while scrolling first through his, then through Sherlock’s emails on his phone.

“Lestrade has replied,” he informs the horse, causing Sherlock to tear off an entire branch and walk over quickly so he can peer over John’s shoulder.

 

From: g.lestrade@met.police.uk

To: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

_Sherlock,_

_man, it’s great to hear that you’ve recovered far enough to read and reply to your emails. Hello Dr. Watson, thanks for looking after him. Hope he’s not getting on your nerves too much. He can be rather vexing when he’s bored._

_Anyway, Sherlock, we could really do with your help here, but first you get better, okay. Have you been able to have a look at the toxicology report at all? Molly Hooper has been working on the case, too, and she has done some more tests. We’ve also questioned the victim’s flatmates, her boyfriend and her family. She seems to have been a model student, and was working on her PhD thesis. I’ve attached a copy of the topic. Perhaps you can understand it. Could be Chinese for all I can grasp. Anyway, her professor at UCL said she seems to have been working on something on the side, too, because she was using the lab for running experiments that had little or nothing to do with research for her thesis. Her prof thinks she was doing freelance work for some medical company, but so far we’ve found no evidence in the form of communications or records or anything on the victim’s computer. Her boyfriend said she seemed very stressed lately. He had barely seen her in the week before she disappeared, and there are very few entries of hers on Twitter or Facebook during that time, two sites she used to frequent excessively up until two months ago. He said he had been worried about her workload, but also described that usually she thrived under stress and pressure, being something of a workaholic who liked a challenge, but that her latest behaviour had been different. He assumes that she might have unknowingly gotten herself involved in something illegal and had been pressured by another party who’d gotten wind of it. We’re trying to find out more about it._

_Concerning Molly’s work I mentioned, as I said before she was confused about the mix of chemicals found in the victim’s blood and tissue samples, and also by her stomach contents. What at first glance looked like goulash or meat pie turned out to be dog food. Yeah, I know that some folks eat that stuff, but according to her friends and family, the victim has been a strict vegetarian for over four years._

 

John interrupts his read to look up at Sherlock, who is gazing at him, too. “Do you think what I am thinking?” asks John excitedly.

Sherlock nods, his eyes large and his breathing elevated.

Feeling slightly dazed, his heart beating fast and loud in his ears, John reads on,

 

_So that’s strange. Molly confirmed what you deduced when you initially saw the victim. She died of heart failure and not of drowning, meaning she must have been thrown into the canal afterwards. Molly didn’t find any signs of violence, however. No bruising, nothing. There were no needle-marks anywhere that would indicate an injection of drugs. Molly believes that she died from ingested poison that caused the cardiac arrest since she had no medical history of heart problems, but as you can see in the report, none of the substances that were found are lethal for humans, at least not in these small doses. If she were a dog, however, both the xylitol and the methylxanthines (from chocolate, says Molly) would have killed or at least severely affected her. Make of that what you want. As I said, we’re stumped, and the higher-ups want us to concentrate on other cases now, so I’d be grateful for any insights you have that I can use to convince them to continue with the investigation._

_Thanks in advance, and look after yourself, okay?_

_G. Lestrade_

 

Running a hand through his hair as he stares at the screen, John lets out a low whistle. “Wow. You think she was turned into a dog, the same way you ended up being a horse?”

Sherlock has leaned in even closer while reading the email. Now he lifts his head from where he has almost been resting against John’s cheek. He nods.

John licks his lips. “But when you found her, she was human-shaped again, despite living long enough as a dog to try meaty dog-food.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Do you know what this means, Sherlock? It means there is a way to turn people back.”

Sherlock snickers softly.

John frowns. “Yeah, I know what you mean. We don’t know yet whether turning her back didn’t kill her. Do you want me to reply to Lestrade? Ask a few more things about the case? Oh, and do you think we should inform your brother, forward this mail to him so he can decide how to cooperate with the police? It might help his people to find an antidote, or another way to turn you back. And Lestrade’s information might give them a lead who to look for. You know, who’s behind all this.”

Sherlock has withdrawn from the bench and is circling it, looking deep in thought. Eventually, he stops in front of John and nods. Licking his lips, John opens a new mail to Mycroft Holmes. “Right, come over and help me with this,” he invites Sherlock.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Apparently the matter of his brother’s affliction has been upgraded to top priority in Mr. Holmes’ busy schedule, because when John and Sherlock return to Sunny Meadows in the early evening, both a little weary and footsore from the long walk yet excited about the new development in the case, they find the black jaguar waiting for them on the drive.

They meet with Mycroft in the meadow behind the stables where he hands John a large folder. “I have taken the liberty of informing DI Lestrade about your real condition, Sherlock,” he says. “He is under oath not to reveal it to anybody, of course. Who indeed would believe him? Still, given that this second case of a transformation as occurred, my people are following several new leads. Not much has been discovered so far that gives any indication of who is behind the death and disposal of the young woman, and indeed her and your transformation, but it is safe to assume that you were targeted because you were getting too close for comfort in your investigation – unless of course you tried out the serum voluntarily after finding out about it. As for the substance which caused the change,” he steps closer to Sherlock and John and lowers his voice, “as I am sure you have already guessed or found out, brother mine, it has to do with some top-secret research that has been conducted at the Baskerville testing site in Dartmoor for some years. Apparently a prototype of a serum that can be used to enable cross species genetic manipulation has been stolen. Since its disappearance, it has been modified to achieve the effects you are experiencing. So far, we only have a sample of the original serum, not the modified version, so we do not yet know how the transformations are being achieved, particularly in the light of the recent recovery of the young woman turned into a dog and back again.”

“So is there proof that she was indeed turned into a canine?” enquires John.

Mycroft nods. “Yes, we are rather certain of it. All evidence points towards her having died while in canine shape, likely because she ingested substances – or was forced to ingest them – which proved lethal to her system as it was then.”

“But how was she turned back? Is there an antidote or something?”

“If there was, there were no traces left in her body. She had been in the canal for too long to provide any reliable evidence. One theory our scientists entertain is that after death, or after a certain period, the original agent that caused the change deteriorates and the DNA returns to its natural state. But I consider it unlikely, and so, I infer from your snort, do you, Sherlock. My theory is that the unfortunate Miss Wickham was murdered because she knew too much about the project, and was turned back into a human, perhaps to neutralise the evidence of the serum in her body.”

John exchanges a glance with Sherlock who appears to be frowning. “But why go to the trouble and turn her back? Had they left her dog-shaped, it would have been much easier to dispose of her body. You know, make it disappear completely. Nobody would have investigated a dead dog, but a dead human … that’s another matter.”

Mycroft Holmes nods. “Indeed.”

At this, Sherlock neighs excitedly and begins to paw the ground. “What is it, Sherlock?” asks John. “You have an idea?”

Sherlock nods. He bites off a stalk of grass and turning his head, stabs himself lightly with it, before looking at John and his brother expectantly. John briefly frowns at Mycroft, who nods. “You mean she administered the antidote herself,” sums up the politician, and John feels a slight stab of jealousy that the other appears to be able to communicate so easily with Sherlock, too. But then, he reasons, they are brothers after all, and likely similar in intelligence.

Sherlock nods, and John catches on. “Oh, you mean she realised she was poisoned, but by things she might survive as a human? Chocolate, xylitol … she could have eaten a Mars bar and some chewing gum and it would have been bad for her as a dog, but no problem for a human. But she used the antidote too late, and so she perished regardless.”

“Either this, or the transformation proved too great a strain on her already weakened system,” adds Mycroft darkly, giving Sherlock a long, thoughtful and undeniably worried glance.

Sherlock nods again.

John glances down at the heavy folder in his hands. “Well, guess we’ve got a bit of reading to do now.”

“Indeed,” agrees Mycroft, twirling his umbrella. “I shall leave you to it. Sherlock, it is good to see you so recovered. Let’s hope you will be able to resume your usual state soon. We are trying to design a counter-agent, but it will require some rigorous testing before it’s safe enough to administer to you. And no, I will not accept you as a test subject, however eager you are to return to your human shape. Dr. Watson, my sincere thanks for all you have done so far. I barely recognise my brother, and this has nothing to do with the increased number of legs or the fact he is covered in hair. Anything else you need, let me know.”

Inclining his head, he stalks off.

John looks at his equine friend who is glaring a hole into his brother’s back. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get to work while it’s still light.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The contents of the folder prove to be highly scientific and therefore complicated to read and understand, even for a fairly scientifically minded person like John with his vet’s training. John is convinced that Sherlock is faring better than he, and so he decides to leave most of the material to him when they part for the night. Sherlock is so engrossed in the research that he doesn’t even acknowledge John when he takes his leave. When John returns round noon the next day Sherlock is still standing stooped over the report which is half buried in straw, and which he is shielding with his body from the view of passers-by. He snorts excitedly when John enters the stall. Plucking the headcollar and rope from a hook in the side partition, he carries them over to John as a clear sign that he wants to go out again. John obliges, attaching the tack and stowing the folder in his rucksack.

They set out towards Putney Common once more and spent most of the afternoon on or next to their bench poring over the material, with Sherlock pointing out important passages to John. John marvels at his memory, and also his ever increasing knack at communicating without words.

At around five they finally take a break. As they are standing next to each other overlooking the golf course and sharing a packet of biscuits, John tries to sum up what they have gathered so far, pointing out what bothers him about their findings, namely the many questions raised and still left unanswered.

“I still don’t get how it’s supposed to work without killing the patient,” he complains. “I mean, we’re talking about messing with people’s DNA here. Humans and animals have completely different sets of chromosomes, for one, not to mention the information encoded on them. It’d be hugely difficult if not impossible to morph one human into another with only a slightly different DNA. And with animals … I’d say it’d be impossible. And yet here you are, a fully functional human mind and conscious in a horse’s body. Do you know what this makes me think of? Magic. This sounds like an episode straight out of  _ Harry Potter _ . Animagi or how they’re called, or this stuff the kids brew in the girls’ toilets, Polyjuice Potion.”

Sherlock gives him a blank look. John cocks his head. “Never read or watched  _ Harry Potter _ , have you?”

Sherlock shakes his head and John smiles. “I’ll bring you the books tomorrow. Something to read when you run out of articles. But back to the case. Do you remember anything from the day you were ... changed? I know I asked before, but I thought that perhaps with all the talk about the case and the new evidence, some memory has been brought up.”

Sherlock looks at him sadly and shakes his head. Sighing, John rubs his neck. “Never mind, mate. Bet it was worse enough waking up and realising you were a horse. Do you remember where you came to your senses again?”

A thought strikes him. “Was it anywhere near the UCL lab?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then shakes his head again. Staring ahead of him, he is quiet for a moment. Suddenly, his head jerks up and he snickers excitedly. “Remembered something?” asks John, then, “Oi, wait for me,” he calls when Sherlock spins round on his hind legs and trots briskly towards the bench where he begins to rummage in the rucksack.

“Hey, what are you looking for? The laptop? It’s back at Sunny Meadows.” Sherlock snorts and nods, and sets out. Cursing softly, John quickly gathers together their things and runs after him. Sherlock is waiting near a crossroads, walking in tight circles and whinnying impatiently.

“Sorry, I’m not as fast as you,” gasps John, trying to catch his breath. “Two legs only, remember, and one of them not functioning the way it should.”

Sherlock snorts again, then nudges him with his head. “What? I’m going as fast as I can. And I’m the one carrying the luggage, remember?”

Another nudge, and a pointed glance of Sherlock’s at his own back. John halts and gazes at him in surprise. “You want me to mount?” he asks. Sherlock nods.

John scratches his head, looking at his friend doubtfully. “Sherlock, the cut on your flank and your legs are barely healed. My leg might hurt you when it touches the tender skin, and the additional weight —”

Another nudge interrupts him. “All right, all right,” he relents. “Let’s go over there, to that bench so I can mount more easily.”

It feels less strange than expected to slide onto Sherlock’s broad back. The rucksack is slightly uncomfortable, and for a moment John doesn’t know whether to grab a strand of Sherlock’s mane to hold himself steady. Then he remembers the rope which he catches and loops around Sherlock’s neck to tie it to the other side of the headcollar to create makeshift reins. Sherlock suffers his ministrations, before giving another snort as if in sign that they’re ready, and sets out at a brisk walk. It’s been some time since John last rode a horse, and even longer since he rode bare-back, but soon his body remembers and he adjusts and steadies his seat. Sherlock, too, seems to need some time to get used to the unaccustomed weight on his back and the light pressure of John’s calves to his sides, but he doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable. John tries to pay heed to his gait for any irregularities, but it feels smooth and steady, no sign of a limp due to pain.

“Tell me when I get too heavy,” he reminds Sherlock, more to ease his conscience than because he feels his friend is in any way bothered by the arrangement, “or when your legs begin to ache, okay? I don’t want you to go lame tomorrow.”

Sherlock nods, and increases his speed until he is moving at a light trot. John holds on for dear life but soon relaxes as his body gets accustomed to the light jolting motion. As horses go, Sherlock’s trot is actually quite smooth and gentle. And what’s more, he appears to be enjoying himself. John sits up straighter and cannot help smiling. He used to like riding in the past, although during his times in the wild it was often a mere means of transportation than something to do as a pastime, the one occasion in Mongolia aside when he was invited to ride a race on the shaggy, fast and sure-footed local ponies. He came second to last in that race, but nevertheless loved the experience.

And this, this is good, too. The wind in his face, the warm horsey smell of his mount wafting up to him, Sherlock’s mane whipping against his hands, the steady clop-clop clop-clop of the unshod hooves on the gravelly path, Sherlock’s soft breaths and snorts and the movement of his muscles under his warm coat ... well, better not think much further along these lines, John thinks, reminding himself firmly that in fact Sherlock is human, and this is a temporary condition and arrangement only, nothing to get used to.

John reins in Sherlock’s speed and enthusiasm when they reach the border of Putney Common and have to cross a busy road. Thinking Sherlock has had enough exercise for the day, John insists he walk through the residential area. “We can ride again tomorrow, if you want, and when I find that you didn’t overdo it today. We might even go as far as Richmond Park. It’s beautiful there, and you can run a bit on the soft ground if you want to. Now slow down. Remember that you aren’t shod. Whatever’s got you so excited can surely wait a few more minutes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Upon reaching the shelter, Sherlock dashes through the stable to their table on the meadow, circling it impatiently until John arrives with the laptop and their paperwork. Sherlock noses at the large foldable map of London John procured at some point. He takes hold of a corner of it with his teeth and shakes it. John helps him spread it out on the table, then steps back as Sherlock leans over it.

“What are you looking for?” he enquires, trying to follow Sherlock’s line of sight.

Sherlock snorts, pointing at a corner of North-West London, Swiss Cottage, thinks John. Then he recalls what he read in Lestrade’s report about the murder inquiry – if it was murder, the Met doesn’t seem to be entirely sure, although Sherlock apparently is.

“She was found near Camden, wasn’t she, but she lived in Swiss Cottage.”

Sherlock nods. John’s eyes narrow thoughtfully as he watches his friend. “Her flat ... you were there?” he ventures.

Another nod, emphatic. John licks his lips. “Do you mean you were there last? Is this the last place you remember being before you were changed?”

For a brief moment, Sherlock looks doubtful, then he nods once more. He glances at John, but the doctor finds he cannot read his expression.

John scratches his head, before absently reaching out to scratch Sherlock’s neck as well. “So ... I guess you went there to have another look around, trying to find things the police missed because they always miss things, yeah? Okay. What happened then? Were you alone or were any of her flatmates there? Alone? Right.” He frowns at Sherlock.

“You didn’t break in, did you?”

Sherlock doesn’t even pretend to look guilty and John sighs. “You are a bit of a vigilante, aren’t you? No wonder you’ve a criminal record for breaking and entering. So ... guess you waited until her flatmates were out and then slipped into the place. Gosh, Sherlock that was two floors up, according to the photographs. Did you climb through the window or what?”

Sherlock snorts with some disdain and noses at John’s key in his trouser pocket. “False key? Lock pick? Dear, dear, you’re half a criminal yourself, aren’t you?”

Sherlock snorts happily, and John cuffs him amicably. “Right, so you ... walked into the flat, had a look around. What happened then? Was there anybody else?”

Sherlock looks up thoughtfully, then nods slowly. “Memory getting hazy?” John wants to know and Sherlock nods again

“Did they attack you? Do you think you were drugged?”

Another slow, deliberate nod. John bites his lip. “What then? Do you remember where you woke up? Was it in the same place?”

Sherlock is quiet for a long while, standing still and unmoving with his eyes unfocused. Only his tail is swishing gently, which John has come to understand as a sign of Sherlock thinking hard. At length, he snaps out of it, turning abruptly away from the table and walking away.

John looks after him, taking his behaviour as a sign that he doesn’t remember, and that he is bothered by it. Still, the information about his visit to the flat is vital. Something seems to have been kept there which was of interest to another party, likely the one responsible for the young woman’s death and Sherlock’s transformation.

He waits until Sherlock has walked off his frustration and returns of his own accord. “Want me to email Lestrade and/or your brother to tell them about this? The police should know that you were attacked at the flat, although they won’t be too happy to learn how you got in, but I’m sure we can ... er ... stretch the truth a bit. But they can send some officers round, have a look at the victim’s things again. Were you looking for something specific, something the other party might have been interested in, too?”

Sherlock gives a vague nod. An idea strikes John. “You thought she’d taken something from work home, didn’t you? Files, other evidence of research, perhaps even some of the substances she was working on or with. That’s what you were trying to find, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nods again, and John sits down and powers up the laptop. “Okay, what do you want me to write to Lestrade?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Both John and Sherlock are slightly sore from their ride the next day. The insides of John’s legs hurt from the unfamiliar exercise, and when he leads Sherlock out onto the meadow in the late afternoon, he notices that he walks more stiffly than usual, with a hint of a limp in his injured hind leg. Against Sherlock’s protest, John condemns him to rest, and tells him they’re going to stay at the shelter for the day.

Sherlock stalks off under what John has termed his sulking tree, where he stands for half an hour, brooding in the shade, before he walks into the middle of the meadow and flops down gracelessly to lie on his side, his eyes closed.

The sheep come over at one point to inspect the strange dark hillock in their pasture, but Sherlock sends them scurrying away with an angry snort and a flick of his tail. John decides to leave him to his sulk for a bit longer and goes to look after Gonzo who seems to have a developed a light colic, and then check on his other patients at Sunny Meadows. He reckons Sherlock is not only pissed off about the fact that the promised outing has been cancelled, but also about John’s delay in general.

After work, John visited his granny again, this time without Harry who is working. For about ninety minutes he sat, held her brittle hands and talked to her, not sure whether she recognised him or not. She seemed to appreciate his company, however. She also liked the chocolates he brought her, and which launched her into an account about how these things were difficult to come by during the War, and did he know that granddad was thought to be a German spy at one point because he was carrying what looked like a copy of Karl May’s  _ Der Schatz im Silbersee _ but turned out to be a mere prop to store some rather saucy pin-up postcards in. John has a good laugh about the story which he didn’t know, and granny seems cheerful as well when he hugs her upon leaving, feeling less drained and heavy-hearted than after his first visit.

When he returns to the meadow an hour later, Sherlock hasn’t moved, and indeed appears to be asleep, still stretched out on his side, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even. Not even his ears, which usually pick up the slightest of sounds, flick in John’s direction as he approaches. John assumes that Sherlock has spent the night reading or thinking again.

Looking at the sleeping creature, so peaceful in his repose, he stifles a yawn. His night, too has been brief, with an early start at the clinic after a late arrival the previous evening, barely managing to catch the last train home after spending the evening with Clara and his sister helping with setting up the shop, poring over the website and considering improvements, and discussing options for his employment. After that, he spent another two hours with Sherlock during which they looked into cross species genetics online, trying to filter out scientific articles from mock-science and fantasy stories. John dreamed of Spiderman and Sherlock again, who this time managed to regrow a severed limb like a lizard or an axolotl.

Not wanting to wake Sherlock, but feeling tempted by the warm sunlight and the tranquility of bees buzzing amongst the buttercups, ladys’s smock and dandelion flowers, some of which are about to go to seed, John quietly fetches his old jumper and spreads it on the ground next to Sherlock, before unpacking his early supper and sitting down in the grass.

Sherlock rouses at that, looking disoriented for a moment. John noticed this before when his friend wakes from sleep. For a brief moment, he seems to have forgotten that he is a horse, until realisation dawns. The spells of disorientation have become briefer recently, but they’re still there, and in a way they comfort John. To him, they indicate that the process Anthea mentioned and which both she and Mycroft and perhaps Sherlock, too, appear to be afraid of, namely that Sherlock is going to convert more and more into a ‘full’ horse and lose his human conscious is being kept at bay.

Sherlock snickers softly as he takes in John’s picnic arrangement. John smiles at him. “Wakey, wakey, sleepy head. Hope you aren’t angry anymore. But the rest is good for you. And me, too. I’m really feeling my age today. So let’s take it easy, all right? Here, I’ve brought you some of the foods you like. Apples, carrots, and even some carrot cake. Oh, and I found some interesting flowering grasses on my way from the station. Thought you might want to try them. Got some more articles on cross species genetics, too.”

They eat in companionable silence, and afterwards Sherlock lies down flat again. John thinks he looks quite content if a little lazy. He, too, feels pleasantly tired. When he makes to stretch out next to Sherlock for a bit of a lie down in the warm afternoon sun, he feels Sherlock nudge him with his leg. “What?”

Sherlock lifts his head out of the grass and motions towards side. John smiles. “Okay. I’ll come over. You’re right, we can read the articles together that way.”

It feels strangely intimate yet far less awkward than John expected to settle with his back to Sherlock’s side, stretching out his legs parallel to the horse’s and leaning back against Sherlock’s warm coat. Sherlock lets out a long breath, shifting his forelegs a little so that John can rest his shoulders comfortably. It’s like leaning against a warm, slightly smelly but soft pillow filled with moving air, decides John, settling into the spot Sherlock has ordained for him and resting his head against this side. Partly shielding his eyes with one arm, he looks up at the slow-moving clouds, immediately discovering odd shapes up there. One looks like an elephant, and the other like an open umbrella, which makes him think of Mycroft.

Sherlock lets out another content snicker, which John can feel through his body. Sherlock’s heartbeat is loud in his ears, and it’s the most prominent sound John hears for a while apart from the soft grazing of the sheep and the cattle, the faint chatter of a group of children on the other side of the main building who seem to have arrived for a tour of the shelter, and the thin roar of a plane overhead making for Heathrow. He smiles. It seems ages since he’s last been like this. Relaxed, content ... happy. The last realisation surprises him. Then he smiles. It’s true. He  _ is _ happy. And one of the reasons, he knows suddenly, lies directly under him, swishing his tail lazily to keep the flies away. John lowers his hand and rests it lightly on Sherlock’s flank, feeling a ripple run through his friend’s body at the soft touch as if in surprise. John pats the spot a little awkwardly, then folds his arms in front of his chest and closes his eyes. 

“We’ll have a look at those articles in a moment, yeah?” he murmurs drowsily.

Sherlock agrees with a soft snicker, although John barely hears him, already drifting off.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He is woken by the shutter sound of a camera, a faint huff of laughter, and the sensation of Sherlock tensing under him and lifting his head.

Squinting against the light, John looks up, beholding his sister silhouetted against the blue sky. She’s holding up her Canon and snapping another picture, her face gleeful.

“Oi,” John protests weakly, rubbing at his eyes while shuffling into a sitting position. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry laughs. “Oh, don’t be like that, Johnny. You know Clara’s asked me to take a few pictures of the place which we can use for the website and our new flyers. And today the weather’s brilliant. And seeing the two of you like this ... well, it was just too cute. Totally sums up what we’re doing here, don’t you think?”

John rolls his eyes at her as he struggles to his feet and reaches behind him to brush horse hairs off the back of his shirt. “Not sure about that. I’m not eager to have a lie down with the pigs, and I don’t really want to see my face plastered over the website.”

Harry gives him a look. “Brother, nobody is going to look at your visage when there’s a gorgeous Frisian next to you. Remember, the horse pics are aimed at horse-crazy girls and boys and their parents. However, it’s also a good depiction of our resident vet, completely in tune with his charges. Animal whisperer and all that.”

She moves over to John to show him the picture. He has to admit it really looks rather adorable, with him dozing and Sherlock watching him, both of them relaxed and obviously at ease with each other.  _ Which we are, _ he reflects. He truly considers Sherlock his friend, and the strange kind of rapport they have, the easy intimacy is new and wonderful, while on the other hand it feels to John that he has known Sherlock for ages, like they have been friends for a long time.

“Send me the file, okay,” he tells Harry, who grins. Sherlock has risen, too, and is busy shaking himself, to then glance over curiously. Harry holds the camera display for him to see. “Okay for you, too, Sherlock?” John sees how he has to prevent himself from replying as he would to John. He makes a nondescript snorting sound, which Harry takes as an accord.

“Great. Clara will be delighted.”

Later, back in the stall, when John is brushing Sherlock’s coat and picking dandelion down out of his mane, he asks him whether he really doesn’t mind. John is referring to the photograph, but feels like his question incorporates other issues as well, such as their napping arrangement. Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gazes at John for a long time with one of his thoughtful, intense looks which John finds difficult to read. Eventually, he nods. When John leaves the stable for the night, he is aware of Sherlock watching him all the way to the door.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Even though the forecast has announced strong winds and a promise of rain for the evening, after giving Sherlock’s legs a critical once over the next day, John feels confident that he’ll manage a longer trip, and so John informs him that if he wants, they could visit Richmond Park. Sherlock seems delighted. Judging by the articles once more hidden under the straw in his stall and the near-empty batteries of the torch, he spent another night reading. He is eager for their outing, however, and shows no signs of pain or fatigue as he positively bounces in his stall, waiting for John to attach the headcollar.

When they’re about to leave the stable, Alicia comes over, carrying a riding helmet. “Rule of the stable,” she tells John. “No riding without it. Even Hal relented in the end, although we had a difficult time finding one that accommodates his funny ears.”

John sighs and takes it from her. “Thanks. How on earth did you know I was riding last time? We walked back here.”

She smiles slyly. “I could tell by the way his coat was ruffled on his back. Also, you had looped the leading rope and tied it to his headcollar like reins. And there were dusty marks of the sides of your shoes on his flanks, easy to see on his dark coat.”

John nods appreciatively. “Good deduction,” he says, giving Sherlock a quick glance. He is looking at Alicia intently, before inclining his head as if in agreement, or salute.  _ The master agrees, _ thinks John, who thinks that Sherlock might even be a little impressed.

Since Richmond Park is a stretch further away than Putney Common, Sherlock suggests that John mount after about ten minutes of walking, or slight limping on John’s part because of his sore muscles. Warning Sherlock to take things easy and not overstrain himself, he is nevertheless grateful not having to walk any longer, and happily clambers onto Sherlock’s back. This time, he has left his rucksack at the shelter and only brought his mobile. During their gentle walk towards the Park as they are passing through Putney and cross Putney Common, John reads Lestrade’s most recent email to Sherlock.

 

From: g.lestrade@met.police.uk

To: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

_Hi Sherlock and Dr. Watson,_

_Mr. Holmes has informed me of what happened. I have to admit I’m at a bit of a loss of what to say. I am glad that you have recovered from your injuries, Sherlock and are trying to make the best of your ... situation with the help of Dr. Watson. Pleased to make your acquaintance, by the way, Doctor. I assume you’re reading this as well._

_But wow, how on earth did this happen, Sherlock? And why a horse, of all creatures? Well, I tried to convince the Chief Super that this case needs to be given top priority, but sadly he didn’t agree, meaning I am swamped with other stuff. Otherwise I’d have come over already. I’ll try and come round tomorrow evening, if that’s okay, for a proper chat, and to show you any new findings from the victim’s flat. Donovan and a team of forensics people are there at the moment, but since nobody, not even your brother’s folks, seem to know what exactly to look for, I can’t promise any results. Still, a little ... chat would be good, I guess. I have a few questions for you. Your brother said you’re able to answer in a fashion, and that moreover Dr. Watson can interpret your replies quite well._

_Is there anything you need. Things from your flat, perhaps? Your landlady has been informed that you’re going to be away for a while, but she doesn’t of course know what’s really up with you. I mean, it’s pretty unbelievable as it is, although with you, well, let’s just say it surprises me less than having somebody else turned into an animal. Hope you didn’t conduct another of your crazy experiments and got yourself horse-shaped because a pot of chemicals blew up in your face._

_Anyway, let me know if I can get you anything, okay. Doctor Watson, do look after him. He sometimes has a hard time doing so himself._

_See you tomorrow,_

_G. Lestrade._

 

“He seems a decent bloke, Lestrade,” comments John after closing the email and returning the phone to the breast-pocket of his shirt. “Seems worried about you, too. How did you meet him? Did he catch you housebreaking?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

John gazes at his broad neck and the wavy mane thoughtfully. “Was it the drugs? Did he pick you up at a crime scene or in a drug den, high as a kite? You, I mean, not him.”

Sherlock shakes his head again, but slower this time. John assumes that at least part of his words were close to the truth, but that Sherlock is unwilling to divulge further information, and despite his eagerness to learn more about this dark spot on Sherlock’s record, he lets the matter drop.

 

**- <o>-**

 

With Sherlock walking at a leisurely pace, they nevertheless reach the eastern border of Richmond Park sooner than John anticipated. It’s none of the busier entrances as there is no major road entering the green space here. Sherlock halts at a small car-park and looks about.

“Any special place you want to go?” enquires John. Sherlock’s coat ripples in a shrug, which feels funny to John as he can feel the movement of Sherlock’s panniculus muscles through the fabric of his jeans.

“Well, you’re the captain,” he tells Sherlock. “If I remember correctly, that road over there leads to the Royal Ballet School. Ever been there?”

Sherlock nods.

“Really? For a case?”

Shake of head.

“Why then? You weren’t interested in ballet as a kid, were you?”

Sherlock snorts and nods. John’s eyebrows rise into his fringe. “Wow, really? Were you any good?”

Another rippling shrug. John leans forward to pat Sherlock’s neck. “Actually, I think that’s pretty cool. Like  _ Billy Elliot _ . Know that film? Right, ’course you don’t. Have you ever actually watched a movie before? Or telly, apart from the news? I think I’ll have to load some films onto my laptop and show them to you. Never having watched  _ Star Wars _ is a capital crime, at least where the original trilogy is concerned. And  _ Billy Elliot _ is a nice film, too, about a kid from Yorkshire back in the eighties who prefers ballet to boxing lessons. Can you still do some of the exercises? As a human, I mean.”

Sherlock neighs and nods, and sets out along one of the green bridle paths across the wide, tree-studded grassland sloping up before them. Again, his trot is elegant with high action, and to John glancing down at his hooves with their swaying feather it almost looks like Sherlock is lifting them extra high, like a dancer would. John smiles and adjusts his seat to enjoy the ride, pulling slightly on the makeshift reins to signal to Sherlock not to go too fast on the uneven ground.

After a few minutes of trot, Sherlock slows down on his own accord and they continue across the meadow at a more moderate pace. John gazes at the ancient oak trees dotting the grassy plane, their trunks gnarled and twisted and riddled with holes and crevices. Some are standing amidst a graveyard of their fallen limbs, other look like they have been struck by storm or lightning, and yet weathered all adverse conditions and persevered. There is very little undergrowth apart from the occasional clumps of gorse or wizened hawthorn, as well as patches of bracken which is putting forth curly, bright green fronts. The reason for the ‘naked’ ground soon comes into view in the shape of a small herd of fallow deer. They are still looking a little dishevelled, having not quite shed their winter coats, but the stags are already growing velvet-covered knobs on their heads.

The deer look up briefly when John and Sherlock pass them at a distance, but otherwise don’t seem bothered by the horseman and his steed. They must be familiar with people, reasons John. After all, Richmond Park is a favourite destination for families, particularly on weekends, as well as offering great spaces for runners, cyclists and hikers. John remembers an internship when as a student, he spent a few weeks in autumn during rut with the park rangers, and one memorable event when they had to tranquilise and then saw apart two capital red stags that had gotten their antlers twisted together during one of their fights. Back during that internship, they’d also had to rescue three dogs, one of their owners and two wildlife photographers from angry, testosterone-fuelled stags who’d been chasing them up trees or, in the case of one dog, into a badger’s sett where promptly it’d gotten stuck.

John tells these tales to Sherlock who snickers gleefully, indicating to John that he is amused and moreover appreciative of the conversation. As far as John can see, there aren’t many people about in their area of the park. A few walkers, a mountain biker, those are all John can spot from his elevated vantage point. He quite enjoys the tranquility, the only sounds being the wind in the trees and the grass, and the high-pitched cry of a bird of prey hovering in the overcast sky.

“Imagine getting transformed into one of those,” muses John. Sherlock glances up at the bird and nods. “Wonder if we’d manage to fly just like them, if suddenly we had wings, or if we’d have to learn it, like fledglings. Were you able to walk on four legs right away?”

Sherlock nods, but also shakes his mane. “Yeah, I can imagine,” says John. “Pretty much like a newborn foal at first, I reckon. But I bet you managed pretty quickly. You seem to be quite quick and clever at most things you do. Do you recall if it hurt? The transformation, I mean. To be honest, I’ve no idea how it’s even supposed to work outside a test tube. Did you just ... morph from one form into the other?”

Sherlock’s coat ripples at his withers again, indicating to John that he doesn’t remember. In John’s mind, he sees a human-shaped Sherlock change into the Frisian CGI-fashion, with fingers becoming hooves and dark hairs spreading over his skin, his face elongating into the muzzle, and his spine extending into a tail and sprouting coarse hairs. Only the eyes, they stayed the same. How long might it have taken? Minutes? Hours? Days? Was he simply injected with the substance, or did he inhale it? Ingest it, perhaps? Or was it a combination of all three, or something else entirely?

Sherlock stops suddenly, and John is pulled out of his reverie. Ahead, beyond what looks like a shallow ditch surrounded by some marshy ground and a cluster of young trees lies one of the roads passing through the park. John spots a number of cars moving slowly in one direction, whilst there appear to be no cars coming from the other side.

“Quite a lot of traffic for a weekday, don’t you think?” he comments, noticing how Sherlock has stiffened and perked up his head. He is listening intently with his ears pricked up tensely. John can feel him draw in deep breaths and exhaling slowly, as if to catch an elusive scent. He leans forward slightly, wondering what has so caught his friend’s attention.

“Anything the matter, Sherlock?” he asks, and then he catches it, too. Dimly, but then louder and louder he can hear the siren of a car. No, two sirens. Police and an ambulance. Then he sees them. Coming from the direction of Kingston, they quickly overtake the slowed down vehicles and vanish in a patch of forest on the top of a long, gentle slope.

Sherlock snorts excitedly, his breathing shallow and fast now. John can feel his own pulse accelerating. “Accident?” he ventures. Sherlock whinnies, his body tense like a coiled spring. John knows that he is eager to take a look, likely because the police is involved and not just the rangers, as would be the case if a deer had been hit by a car.

Gripping a strand of Sherlock’s mane as well as the reins, he adjusts his seat. “Go on, then,” he says. At the slightest touch of his heels to Sherlock’s flanks, the horse speeds off.

Riding at a light trot was enjoyable, but if John were to compare it to what is happening now, he’d likely search for another adjective. Because this, this rush of adrenaline at Sherlock launching himself from walk to trot to canter to gallop in what seems like seconds only, his body stretching, elongating, his powerful legs propelling him forth, his mane whipping into John’s face ... well, this is the real thing, isn’t it? It’s brilliant, exhilarating. John lets out a little whoop before he can catch himself, and his sound of joy is answered with a neigh from Sherlock and another burst of speed as he leaps over a rabbit hole in the uneven ground.

“Sherlock, don’t overdo it,” warns John, but only half-heartedly. He could try to rein in Sherlock, gather him into a gentle canter instead of this wild chase. But he doubts his steed would obey, and if he’s perfectly honest with himself, he is revelling in the excitement of the ride far too much to really want Sherlock to slow down. Likely they’re both going to pay the price for this recklessness tomorrow, with sore muscles and limping legs.  _ But hell, _ thinks John,  _ I’ve tried to be reasonable for far too long. _ He’s missed this, missed the danger, the excitement, the chase. And Sherlock ... from all he’s learned about him, the creature hasn’t got a sensible bone in his body, horse or human. So he lets him run, and holds on for dear life in the hope they won’t take a tumble. 

Very soon, the ditch comes into clear view, and now John does lean back a little and pull on the reins. “Careful, Sherlock, the ground’s bound to be slippery – oh shit.”

With a mighty leap, Sherlock flies over the ditch and lands smoothly on the other side. Nevertheless John has difficulties staying mounted, sliding on the smooth back with no saddle or stirrups to support him. His calves clench round Sherlock’s ribs, and he steadies his seat. The slope is getting a little steeper and more densely grown with bracken. Sherlock slows down a little, but continues uphill at a steady pace. Reddish-brown large-eared heads pop up out of the fern, watching the duo fly past. John catches glimpses of the dark golden eyes and slender faces of a herd of red deer.

The trees become denser until Sherlock has to wind his way through the massive trunks of oak-trees, and the slender ones of rowans and young ash-trees until a glint of metal and the flicker of blueish lights announce that they are approaching the site of what looks like a road accident. Sherlock slows down near the edge of the grove. Out of bracken and gorse, deer are watching the road curiously, ducking away when the rider approaches. John can see the ambulance crew load a person on a stretcher into the car, while another injured sits in the back, an orange shock blanket over his shoulders and a bandage or coolpack pressed to his forehead. Police are trying to get the traffic queue that has formed behind what looks like three crashed cars going again.

Next to a red Seat with a shattered windscreen and a large dent in the bonnet, another police officer and two rangers are standing, looking at the ground. John cannot quite see that they are studying there because Sherlock’s head is blocking the view, but his companion seems particularly interested in it. He snorts excitedly, still somewhat out of breath from his run, and approaches the site at a quick trot.

Drawing close, John finally recognises what the rangers and the policewoman are looking at: lying in a crumpled heap to the side of the road is a young red deer stag. He’s obviously been hit by the Seat, or even more than one car. Both of his front legs are twisted in strange and painful-looking angles, and his neck looks broken as well, judging from the unnatural way his head is bent.

“Shit,” mutters John. Sherlock gives a low snicker in agreement. “He must have hit the car full on. Strange. Normally, drivers passing through the Park go really slow because they know that deer may cross the roads at any time. Either the driver didn’t know, or the deer rushed out of the bracken in a hurry and caught him at unawares. Judging from the state of the front of the car, I reckon that was indeed the case. Poor thing. Something must have frightened the stag, or he likely wouldn’t have dashed across the road in such a hurry.”

Having slowed down, Sherlock turns his head round to John and snorts at him. “What me to go investigate? Okay. You can come, too, but try and ... you know ... be as horsey as possible. You know there’d be trouble otherwise. Stop here so I can dismount, will you?”

Sliding off his back, John leads Sherlock towards the stag. The animal is dead, although the closer view indicates that the impact didn’t kill him outright, but that he was euthanised by the rangers. John sighs with regret, even though he knows that with the injuries the stag received he wouldn’t have survived in any case. They appear to be much more severe than broken bones. A faint trickle of blood from his nostrils hints at internal injuries, and the neck looks like several vertebrae were broken.

“The driver is in shock, obviously,” he hears the police constable explain to the rangers, “but he insists that the animal leapt at his car. He braked, and then the car behind him had to sheer out and collided with another. Do you often get deer that behave like this around here? The driver lives up in Richmond, said he uses the road almost daily for his commute. He never encountered anything like this before.”

The addressed ranger shrugs. “The stags tend to get pretty thoughtless and even aggressive during rut in autumn, and in spring and early summer when the offspring is born the deer are very protective. But to have a single stag run around in a panic is very unusual. It almost sounds to me that he was chased by something, but none of the drivers saw a dog or another person, they said. And it must have been something along those lines. No deer would be that panicky if spooked by a bird or a rabbit, or even a fox.”

“Have you checked for signs of rabies?” falls in John.

The trio turn to him and regard him critically. “I’m a vet at a nearby animal shelter, Dr. John Watson,” John introduces himself. “I was riding nearby and heard the sirens, and assumed that there had been some accident, likely with a deer. Looks pretty bad, the poor thing.”

The female ranger nods. “Indeed. I had to put him down. No, we didn’t check for rabies, but that’s a good idea, actually. We certainly wouldn’t want to have this in the Park. There are many foxes around this year. We hope we’ve managed to vaccinate them all, but it’d be possible that the deer caught it from a stray dog. It’s a public space, so sadly we can’t account for all the irresponsible idiots round here. Would you like to have a look, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Have you worked with deer before?” enquires the ranger.

John nods as he approaches the body. “Yes, I have. And larger creatures, too, lately. But I spent one of my internships here at Richmond Park. Gosh, must be nearly twenty years ago now. Is Bill Murray still working here?”

The male ranger shakes his head, but smiles, obviously recognising the name. “Retired two years ago, and now lives somewhere down in Cornwall with his wife and his dogs. But he still visits now and again.” Turning to his colleague, he says, “You know, Caroline, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular stag round here. Certainly not with this herd over there. They’re Old Joey’s ladies, and he certainly wouldn’t suffer another stag around. Remember what he did to the other contenders last autumn.”

From the corner of his eye, John sees the female ranger nod.

“Oi, what is your horse doing?” interrupts the policewoman. “Do hold him back, please, we don’t want any more accidents today.”

With a muttered, “Sherlock, seriously,” and an apologetic glance at the rangers and the police constable, John steps over to grab Sherlock’s reins again and pull his head away from the dead stag he was sniffing at. “Behave,” he breathes to him.

Sherlock, however, ignores him. He whinnies and tries to pull his head free so he can study the body up close once more. John moves in front of him and bracing himself against he broad chest, pushes him backwards. “You’ll get us both into trouble, you idiot,” he tells him under his breath. “Stand aside. It’s just a dead stag, not a murder victim.”

Sherlock shakes his head wildly and snorts into John’s face. “Sherlock, I’m warning you.”

Straining to brush past John, Sherlock pushes forward but John holds him back. “Looks like the horse is spooked by all the people and the cars,” comments the constable. “Sir, do you need help getting him under control?”

“No, thanks, we’re fine,” returns John through gritted teeth. “Or at least we would be if lordship here knew how to behave. What’s the matter, Sherlock. Not even you are that unreasonable. Or ...”

An idea strikes John, and he looks up into Sherlock’s narrowed, determined eyes. “Did you spot anything strange about the stag?” he asks in a low voice. Sherlock calms down immediately and regards him seriously. He nods. John licks his lips. “Okay, okay. Do you know what it was? Can you ... point it out or something?”

Sherlock nods again. Still bracing himself against him, John can feel the tension ripple through his powerful body. Sherlock seems to be almost quivering with half-controlled excitement.

“Right, then,” says John, “what did you—”

Sherlock responds with a lick over John’s eyes, which thankfully he manages to close just in time. “Eurgh, Sherlock, that’s nasty.”

Sherlock snorts, nodding towards the stag. John wipes his face. “What?” He frowns, turning briefly to look at the stag and the three officers watching him struggle with his horse with barely suppressed amusement.  _ So much for acting natural and horse-like, _ John thinks.  _ They must believe me to be a complete weirdo, trying to reason with my bloody horse. _

He wipes at his eyes again, and freezes. “Oh my God,” he whispers, and letting go of Sherlock, he kneels down next to the stag to get a closer look at his head. The eyes are half closed and shot with red, the pupils wide. Wide, yes, but not the oval shape cervine pupils usually have. These here are round. And the irises ...  _ Oh shit, _ thinks John,  _ we found another one. _ Because the irises are bright green, verdant like new bracken.

Rocking back on his heels, he gazes up at Sherlock, then at the two rangers who have stepped closer and are leaning in curiously. “Is it rabies, Dr. Watson?” enquires the woman, Caroline.

“No,” replies John, letting out a long breath. Taking off his riding helmet, he runs a hand through his hair. “This is something far more serious. I have to make a phone call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As announced above, this chapter has three illustrations, the "official" one and two others which are inspired by photographs taken by characters in the story:  
>   
>   
> 


	7. Lizard, fox and tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your brilliant feedback. I hope that with the summer holidays only a week away, updates on this and my other fics will be a bit more frequent.
> 
> Also, there's a [**Russian translation**](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3304880) of the story now, done by Ankar. Thank you so much.

After phoning Anthea to tell her about his suspicion, John returns to the waiting rangers.

“Some APHA people will come over,” John informs them, because that’s what he agreed with Anthea as their smokescreen. Anthea promised to send a team over and also to pass on information to Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade. “They’ll transfer the body to one of their labs for a closer inspection,” she briefs John over the phone, “and also try and find out who he was.”

The rangers exchange a worried glance after John’s announcement. “This sounds serious, if APHA is getting involved,” muses Caroline. “Do you have any idea what it is? He looks healthy – apart from his injuries, of course. All our animals are constantly being surveyed and tested, so we can pretty much rule out infectious diseases. But we definitely wouldn’t want anything he could pass on to our animals in the Park. We couldn’t find any identification on him that indicates he’s one of ours. I don’t recognise him, either, and neither does Colin here, and we pretty much know any of our animals. It’s possible he wandered into the Park from somewhere else. I’ve already called round to ask if any of the other places that have red deer are missing any of theirs.”

“This is something new. His ... affliction, I mean,” says John. “I don’t know much about it myself, but I recognise the symptoms. There have been at least two other reported cases recently, that’s why APHA is involved.”

Caroline exchanges a worried glance with her colleague, Colin, who looks like he’s about to question John some more when the walkie-talkie in their jeep rings, and he wanders off to take the call. John is glad for the distraction. He doesn’t want to lie to the rangers who are only doing their job and are rightfully concerned. He is a little surprised by their lack of suspicion, having not even asked him to properly identify himself and prove his credentials. But he knows that only as much as hinting at the true story behind the poor person’s death would open a can of worms so large and wriggly that he really wouldn’t know how to properly contain them again. Also, since the entire matter is so hushed up and secret, he decides to leave the briefing (or further misinforming) of bystanders to the officials. Let Mycroft and his minions deal with that, busy election time or no. Speaking of election ... with a stab of guilt he recalls that he has neglected to vote in the morning. It seems unlikely that he’s going to make it back home in time for it. Normally, he takes his political duties seriously, but decides that the current matter deserves precedence.

He looks up at Sherlock who is hovering nearby, his leading rope tied to a young tree which he seems less than happy about. Sherlock gives him a dark glance in return and John shrugs apologetically. It’s not as if Sherlock wouldn’t be able to free himself easily if he wanted to, but for the time being he seems to have resigned himself to waiting, albeit making his irritation known with snorts and neighs and impatient hoof strikes at the ground.

With a sigh, John walks over, and catching Sherlock’s head, he holds it, stroking his muzzle. Sherlock calms down visibly, even shuffling a little closer to John.

“I know, I know,” John mutters softly. “I have a thousand questions as well. I also know you want to examine the body more closely. But Sherlock, we have to be extremely careful not to evoke suspicion. Do you believe this was an accident?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Neither do I. Well, I don’t think the car hit him on purpose, either. But running around in a panic ... isn’t this what happened to you, too? That you woke up, found yourself in a strange body and simply ran for it?”

Sherlock gazes at him levelly, then shakes his head slowly, and John remembers. “Oh, you ran away from this other place, right? The one your brother brought you to. Why? Where they treating you badly there? I’m sorry I never asked before.”

Sherlock shrugs – or what goes for shrugging in his shape –, then shakes his head. John frowns at him. “You wanted to simply get away? Why? Oh, to investigate, right? Well, you wouldn’t have been able to do it properly in this shape, would you? Not without help, I mean.”

He doesn’t add what he’s thinking: _lucky you to have met me, loony vet John Watson who came to treat your injuries and started taking an interest, and so found out who you really are._

Sherlock snickers softly and rubs his head against John’s arm and shoulder, giving his hand a small lick. John smiles, but the sentiment is bittersweet. Without him, he suddenly realises, Sherlock might have been off much worse. Sedated because of his ravings, likely tied up in some stall somewhere, unable to communicate, going slowly mad from fear and frustration and boredom. His brother would have tried to return him to his original shape, no doubt, but without taking into account that Sherlock is itching to solve the riddle himself. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, the only visible part he seems to have retained from his human shape, he understands that Sherlock is aware of his immense luck at meeting the one vet who’d stay around to look more closely, and to listen, and to care.

And it could have been even worse, John knows. Vividly, he recalls the sensational article in the _Daily Mail,_ the near collision with the taxi mentioned there, and Sherlock’s dangerous dash through Regent’s Park and down Baker Street. He could have been hit by a vehicle at any time, ended up gravely injured or even dead like the poor stag man lying broken by the roadside. Or he could have been shot by police because of the danger he posed to traffic and pedestrians. He might have been killed and ended up in an abattoir or been cremated before his brother got wind of the matter to interfere and at least retrieve his body. Things had not turned out that way, luckily, but the knowledge that they could have but for chance, and easily, grips John’s heart like a vice and squeezes it painfully. He might never have met Sherlock, and likely not even heard of the matter. He might have come across the news article about the break-in at UCL, or the vanished researcher, might even have heard someone at the clinic mention the story about the runaway horse up in Baker Street. Normally, John doesn’t touch the _Fail_ with a ten-foot stick, doesn’t even pick it up when he finds it on the Tube. He’d never have met Sherlock, and so missed out not only on the most fascinating, exciting adventure he’s so far experienced in his not unadventurous life, but also, as he becomes more and more keenly aware each passing day, would have missed out on a brilliant if highly unusual friend. A dear one, too, and easily the best John has ever had. Feeling Sherlock stand close to him and actively if somewhat shyly and awkwardly seeking out his caress by rubbing the side of his head against his sleeve, John is convinced that the sentiment is mutual.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, John steps closer to him and rest his head against the side of Sherlock’s broad neck, running his hand over his warm coat and feeling his heartbeat slow as Sherlock calms at his touch, his frustration ebbing away under John’s gentle reassurance.

“It’s going to be all right, you’ll see,” he soothes, as much for Sherlock’s benefit as his own. “We’ll find a way to return you to your original shape. There must be one. The lab assistant was turned back, too, even managed to do so herself, maybe. And we’ll find out who’s behind it.”

Sherlock snickers and rubs his head against John’s side. For a moment they stand like this, close, almost embracing, before Sherlock lifts his head and snorts, beginning to nose at John’s shirt. Withdrawing slightly, John gives him a questioning glance. With his muzzle, Sherlock points at his breast pocket, then at the stag. John understands that he wants him to take photographs of the body, and quickly complies, grateful for the task.

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time three official looking cars arrive, the local police have sorted out the accident and the traffic is flowing again. Those having suffered injuries during the collisions have been treated or sent on to hospital. John informs the sergeant in charge that likely she will be contacted by officers from the Met, which alarms her.

“It’s just because the circumstances of the accident were so unusual,” soothes John. “Likely, DI Lestrade or one of his colleagues will want to talk to those involved in the accidents, just to learn more about the stag’s behaviour before and during the crash.” He doesn’t mention that according to his knowledge, Lestrade is working for the homicide division, and that even though the collision might still have been just an accident that killed the unfortunate creature, the fact that in all likelihood he is another person transformed into an animal is not. _Things are getting creepy,_ he thinks.

Anthea herself steps out of one of the cars and makes for the rangers and the police. She is dressed a little less formally than in her position as Mr. Holmes’ second-in-command, but officially looking enough to pass for a high-ranking APHA inspector. This is who she introduces herself as. Her team begin to interrogate the rangers and the police. They also take pictures of the crash-site and finally, after a brief inspection, carefully zip the body of the stag into a body bag and load it into one of the cars. With the promise of keeping the rangers informed, Anthea moves over to John and Sherlock, gazing at the Frisian with interest. John understands that likely she has not seen him in the flesh before, or at least not in this shape.

“My twelve year old self would have been head over heels with you,” she tells him softly, which causes Sherlock to scowl at her and John to grin. She shoots him an apologetic glance and shrugs. “Bit clichéd, I know, but there you go. I was a complete horse-freak as a teenager.”

Turning grave and businesslike once more, she lowers her voice. “The body will be removed to the facilities at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where a team of our scientists and Dr. Hooper are going to do a thorough autopsy, as well as a number of tests. We’ll definitely try out the antidote on the deceased’s tissue to see if any change in the genetic structure can be brought about. We’ll keep you informed of any developments.”

Giving Sherlock a stern, warning glance, she continues, “Mr. Holmes implores you to keep a low profile, Sherlock, and you, too, Dr. Watson. This being the second accidental looking death, I believe I need not point out to you the mysterious circumstances of both. We, I am certain you as well, suspect that they are, in fact, not as accidental as they seem.”

“You mean somebody is walking about turning people into animals as an experiment, or even some kind of sick joke?” enquires John.

“By all appearances, yes. And since Sherlock has been affected as well, and we still do not know how he was transformed, whether forcefully or by self-experimentation” – Sherlock shorts indignantly at that, which Anthea pointedly ignores – “he must not draw any attention to himself. If he was indeed given the agent on purpose, it looks like he slipped the perpetrator’s net of surveillance for the moment. They may want to retrieve him.”

A thought strikes John. “Who tells you that I’m not the one behind it? I’ve been surveying him closely this past week.”

Anthea gives him a long, level glance, one shapely eyebrow cocked. “Dr. Watson, you do not seriously believe that Mr. Holmes let you come anywhere near his brother without thorough background checks, do you?”

John grins. “Not really, no. Guess he even knows my favourite jam.”

“Tiptree Strawberry and Rhubarb, preferably on whole-grain toast and with slightly salted butter,” deadpans Anthea, a smile sparkling in her eyes. John heaves a sigh and exchanges a glance with Sherlock who snickers. “Thought so. Guess you deduced it, too, didn’t you?”

Sherlock nods.

“Right. Okay. No secrets there, I see. I guess I don’t really want to know what else you’ve got in those files about me. But at least you seem convinced that I’m not the bad guy. That’s great.”

“Pretty much, yes. For now, I suggest you return to Sunny Meadows. I will settle matters here, and send word if there are any new revelations.”

Giving the sky a sceptical glance as she moves towards the waiting cars, she adds over her shoulder, “You better hurry. There is rain coming up.”

John looks up at the dark clouds. The wind has increased, and there is a faint smell of petrichor in the air. “Yeah, we better get moving. You okay, Sherlock? Anything you want me to ask Anthea before we set out?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. John unties him after giving his legs a critical check. “You’ve been favouring your hind leg throughout our conversation,” he states, running a hand over the joint.

Sherlock snorts impatiently. John cards a hand through his hair, casting a doubtful glance at the riding helmet lying on the ground at Sherlock’s hooves.

“I shouldn’t be riding, you know. You’ll be lame again tomorrow.”

Sherlock makes his strange eye-rolling equivalent and nods towards John’s dodgy leg, shaking his head.

“Idiot,” John sighs, but fondly. “But sadly, you’re right. I’m lame already, sort of. You’re to keep to a slow walk, though, okay? There’s no sense in aggravating your leg further. And if it starts to pain you, you’ll let me know, understood?”

Sherlock nods curtly. John ties the lead into reins again, dons the helmet, before with some effort, he scrambles onto Sherlock’s back. Casting a last glance at the site of the accident and giving the rangers a wave, they set out in the direction they came from.

 

**- <o>-**

 

During their trek through the grove, John spots a number of red deer that seem to have withdrawn there to get away from the commotion near the road, and perhaps also to shelter from the increasingly blustery wind. He wonders whether they noticed anything strange about the stag man, as he calls the unfortunate dead in his mind. The other horses in the stable back at Sunny Meadows appear to be more or less ignoring Sherlock, despite the fact that he is a stallion and there are several mares among them. At least to John’s human nose and ears, he smells and sounds like a regular equine. But he remembers that Hal mentioned how Sherlock doesn’t seem to get along with them when they are out on the meadow. Perhaps, John reasons, this has more to do with Sherlock preferring his solitude and avoiding them than them feeling uneasy in his company. But maybe they do sense that there is something strange about him, probably because he can’t really communicate with them. He makes a mental note to ask Hal, before he remembers that he can ask Sherlock, too.

Sherlock has been walking at a steady but moderate pace, his head drooping, which John takes rather as a sign of deep thought than of overt exhaustion. The wind has freshened even more and is tying knots into his long mane which John knows he will have to untangle later – a task he doesn’t mind because Sherlock seems to enjoy.

Leaning forward a bit, John lays a hand on Sherlock’s withers.

“Sherlock, did you ever pay attention to how the other horses back at Sunny Meadows react to your proximity? I was wondering about the deer right now, and if they knew if something was strange about the stag man.”

Sherlock jerks up his head, obviously pulled out of deep thought by his words. He thinks for a moment, then nods.

“Did they ... dunno, seem nervous in your company?”

Nod.

“Did they shun you?”

Another nod.

“Attack you or chase you away?”

A shake of head after a brief deliberation, which John takes as a positive answer to the latter question. He nods to himself.

“Would have surprised me if not, to be honest. They are herd animals, after all, and finely attuned to each other’s smell and signals. They’d know if they were encountering the ‘real article’, so to say.”

Sherlock agrees with a snicker. Then, abruptly, he stops, raising his head and listening intently, while also drawing deep breaths as if to catch an elusive scent. Looking around, John sees that all the deer are mirroring his actions, not just the one keeping watch over the grazing herd. He can’t make out anything that might have alarmed them, but clearly both they and Sherlock with his enhanced senses can.

“What is it?” asks John softly, feeling the sudden tension in Sherlock’s body. He, too, is tense and attentive as he scans the vicinity, particularly the rare thickets of gorse, and the dips and hollows in the ground where last year’s bracken still lies thick. It’s not exactly the prickle at the back of his neck he feels as a sign of impending danger, but nevertheless John senses that something is watching them. Or someone. Judging by their behaviour and their alertness bordering on fear, the animals, driven by their instinct, do so, too. _A predator,_ thinks John, sitting up straighter.

Sherlock snorts softly, as if to ask what to do. He is staring at a patch of bracken, and John can feel how he is straining to go and investigate. Feeling excitement surge through him, John nudges his flank gently with his calf, and Sherlock sets in motion. He has only taken a few steps, however, when the bracken starts to rustle and heave, and a figure attired in army fatigues and a broad-brimmed hat with compartments for photographic utensils emerges from the plants. He is carrying a rucksack, a camera with a large telephoto lens and a tripod stick. The deer scatter in fright as he climbs out of the bracken, looking rather put out.

“Couldn’t you just have moved on?” the man asks crossly, his high voice tinged with a faint accent John can’t quite place. Might be Westcountry, might be Irish, or even American. Sherlock, he is sure, knows, can likely pinpoint the exact town or city, or village, even. Likely he can deduce much more. To John, the man, who looks to be in his early thirties, has the appearance of a typical wildlife photographer of the more dedicated kind. He is wearing functional, somewhat threadbare attire that makes him blend in well with his natural surroundings. He looks a bit dishevelled with tendrils of bracken clinging to his thin three-days’ beard and a shoulder-long mob of hair peeking out from under the hat.

John knows the breed. He encountered plenty of them during his sojourns in the wildernesses of the world. Some became good friends, especially those who took their profession seriously. Others turned out to be complete morons, however, irresponsible arseholes who’d endanger the animals or themselves simply to capture a perfect shot. Those cared nothing about preservation, or protection of their ‘prey’, and were frowned upon by John and his colleagues.

“Did you have to stand there for ages and ages, spoiling the shot?” the man goes on complaining.

“Sorry,” replies John. “My horse sensed you and was alarmed, and so were the deer, and since we’ve just come from the site of an accident up on the road where a deer collided with a car, we were hyper aware of everything potentially upsetting the animals. How long have you been here? Did you see anything that might have caused the deer to panic? A stray dog, perhaps, or people chasing them on bikes?”

The man thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I heard the sirens, but didn’t go and investigate because the deer came to gather in this grove, and I’d found a great spot nearby where I could hide in the bracken downwind and photograph them from up close. Sorry for being cross. I’ve been freezing my arse off lying down on the ground. Is the stag all right?”

“He was killed, sadly,” replies John. “Nothing we could do, really.” Sherlock snorts. He is still tense, John notices, and keeps looking about and sniffing the air. He shakes his mane and neighs, just when John feels the first drop of rain on his hand.

The photographer looks up at the sky, too, and grimaces, taking off his glasses to wipe away some raindrops. “Shit, I better get back to my car. Wouldn’t want my camera to get wet. Sorry again, mate. Hope you don’t have to ride far. Nice horse, by the way. Frisian, right? What’s his name?”

“Sherlock,” replies John, at which the photographer laughs.

“That’s a good joke, mate.”

“Joke, why?” asks John, frowning.

“Well, it’s an old name, Old English. It means ‘fair-haired’, or ‘bright-haired’, rather,” the photographer informs him with no small measure of smugness. “Well, I’m off. Good day to you. Hope you stay dry.”

Waving to John, he sets off across the grove, where he is soon swallowed up by the gloom under the trees in his camouflaged clothing.

“That was an odd fellow,” muses John. Sherlock nods, still standing stiff and tense, watching the direction the photographer vanished in. “Was he right about your name?”

Sherlock nods, but he seems distracted.

John chuckles. “Your parents are strange people,” he declares, then taking up the reins again, he nudges Sherlock. “Come on, let’s get home. The rain is getting stronger.”

Sherlock, however, does not budge. “Come on, Sherlock. I don’t want to get drenched more than necessary.” A thought strikes him. “Did you notice anything strange about the bloke?”

Sherlock seems undecided for a moment, but when the drops get fatter and more frequent, he shakes his mane and begins to move. However, when they have left the grove, he halts again, sniffing the air experimentally and gazing west towards the road where it is visible through a gap in the trees. There, John thinks he can see the man, and now he is not alone but accompanied by another, taller figure. Together, they walk along the road towards a parked car, get in and drive off, unfortunately in the exact opposite direction from their own.

Sherlock gives a frustrated neigh.

“Let’s get home,” mutters John. “You can tell me what you deduced about the man then.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock inclines his head, then begins to move again.

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time they reach Wimbledon Common, the rain is pouring down steadily and John is drenched down to his vest and underwear. The wind is cold, making him shiver and curse the fact he didn’t bring a jacket or even a jumper. He is hungry, too, because due to the accident, they did not stop to get food somewhere as had been his original plan.

Sherlock, too, seems bone-weary as they tackle the last miles towards their destination. His head is drooping alarmingly, mainly with exhaustion this time. John is rather sure he cannot spare any energy for thinking at the moment. His steps are slurred with his limp pronounced at he hobbles down residential streets towards Sunny Meadows.

At length, John dismounts to walk and warm up, and also to spare Sherlock the extra weight. They must look a bedraggled, miserable pair when finally, with dusk already darkening the sky in the east, they reach the shelter.

John leads Sherlock into his stall where thankfully fresh water and fodder have already been prepared for the horse. Taking off his headcollar, he begins to rub him down with straw.

“I’ll do your mane and tail tomorrow, okay,” he tells Sherlock wearily, frowning at the tangled mass of matted hair that hands down on both sides of Sherlock’s neck, elf-knots tied into the dark strands by the wind. The tail looks even worse. “For tonight, another poultice for your leg is more important, or you won’t be able to put any weight on it tomorrow.”

He sneezes, startling Sherlock, who begins to shuffle around in the stall. “Hey, keep still,” complains John as he begins to inspect his hooves and clean them with the hoof pick. Something thick, heavy and smelling of horse is dumped on his head and shoulders, and he smiles, straightening up and arranging the blanket around himself.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he tells his friend, speaking gravely and clapping Sherlock’s flank. “I’ll ask Clara for a towel or even a change of clothes when I fetch your poultice, and some more food. For me as well. I’m starving. But thanks for wanting to keep me warm.”

He looks up at Sherlock who is watching him quietly. “You know, all those people describing you as an arrogant arsehole ... I think they’re idiots. You can be really kind and considerate when you want to be.”

Sherlock snorts, but John is not sure whether with indignation, in protest or agreement.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Clara voices her relief when John enters the kitchen. “I tried to call you, and texted you twice,” she tells him a little reproachfully. “We’d no idea when you’d be back, but when the rain started, I thought I’d better check. I could have organised a horse-trailer for Sherlock, you know.”

“It was okay, but thanks. I forgot to check my phone on the way back. We came across an accident involving a stag up in Richmond Park.” Something tingles in the back of his mind at these words, but he cannot grasp it, so he goes on. “After that we were busy trying to get home relatively dry, which we managed to fail at spectacularly, as you can see. I’ve looked after Sherlock, but if you had a towel for me I’d be grateful.”

“Have a hot tea and some stew, too, before you return to him. You can have some clothes of mine as well. They should fit you.”

“Thank you,” says John as he begins to prepare the poultice, smiling at Clara when she sets a steaming cup of tea next to him.

 

**- <o>-**

 

A short while later, John returns to the stable carrying a bowl of poultice prepared according to Hal’s special recipe. Sherlock looks up when he wrestles open the door of the stall. John sees his eyes widen and hears him snicker softly in a way that John has come to understand as Sherlock voicing amusement. He sighs, smiling wryly.

“They’re Clara’s clothes as no doubt you’ve deduced already,” he explains, nodding at his too-wide jeans and the colourful and wildly patterned Gudrun Sjöden jumper, “but at least they’re warm. And yes, I’m wearing some of her underwear, too. Don’t know what’s supposed to be funny about it. And you’re in no position to ridicule me, anyway. You’re a bloody horse.”

Sherlock snorts, before looking up sharply as footsteps sound on the corridor. Clara pops her head round the door. “Hey, John, I’ve brought you a visitor,” she announces, and John can hear the faint tension in her voice. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. He said he has some more questions for you concerning the accident you witnessed.”

Straightening up from where he has been kneeling next to Sherlock’s hind leg to apply the poultice, John emerges to look over his broad back to see a middle-aged, grey-haired man step up to the door. He recognises him from the articles he read online and their accompanying photographs. The DI has a long-suffering yet patient and competent look about him, and reminds John of an old family dog who has seen a lot of shit in his life and yet, somehow, managed to keep his faith in humanity. A dog – or a silver fox, as his sister would no doubt call him with a smirk and a wink. Despite avidly playing for the other team, she appears to appreciate certain men for aesthetic reasons, and is quite passionate about it. John believes that Lestrade’s exterior would appeal to her.

Lestrade stops short in the doorway, his eyes riveted on Sherlock who stands a little taller, watching the policeman, his stance tense and alert.

“Holy shit,” mutters Lestrade, his dark eyes roaming over Sherlock’s figure. He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then remembers to close his mouth.

“He’s quite impressive, isn’t he, our Sherlock?” agrees Clara, mistaking his astonishment. “Mr. Lestrade, this is Dr. Watson.”

Lestrade has to visibly shift his attention away from the horse to concentrate on John when the doctor steps round Sherlock and extends his hand. “Oh, right, pleased to meet you in person, Dr. Watson,” he greets him, a brief sparkle in his eyes betraying his surprise and amusement at John’s attire.

“Likewise,” replies John. “Don’t wonder about my clothes. We got rained on on our way back from Richmond Park, and Clara was kind enough to lend me some dry ones.”

Lestrade grins and nods. “Believe me, I’ve seen stranger things in my career.” His eyes shift to Sherlock at this.

“Yeah, I bet,” says John with a wry smile.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Clara. “I need to check the roof of the cattery before the next rainshower is due tonight. Alicia said there was a leak. Let me know if you need anything, or if you want me to give you a lift to the station. It’s already quite late.”

John thanks her. They wait until her footsteps have receded down the corridor, before Lestrade lets out a long breath. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he addresses the horse. “Is that really you?”

Sherlock nods, pointing towards Lestrade’s left arm with his muzzle and beating the floor twice with a hoof. John frowns, and Lestrade shakes his head in disbelief as he unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and bares his lower arm to reveal two nicotine patches.

“Well, apparently your deductive powers haven’t been impaired by your ... altered circumstances. Shit, Sherlock, how did this happen?” Sherlock bows his head and shakes his mane in frustration.

“We don’t know yet,” translates John. “He doesn’t recall the exact circumstances of his transformation, but with the two bodies that were found, we hope to learn more about how people are getting turned into animals. Moreover, there’s still a chance that he’ll remember over time. Did you find out anything about the stag man?”

Lestrade nods, still eyeing Sherlock with wonder. “We are relatively certain that the deceased is one Stephen Potter, 32, of Wimbledon. He was reported missing by his girlfriend yesterday.”

John frowns at the name, and Sherlock, too, gives a low snort as if of recognition.

“Yeah, I know,” sighs Lestrade. “Sad as the matter is, it’s almost like a joke that the fellow’s name is Potter and he gets turned into a stag. I increasingly get the feeling that someone is having an evil laugh at our expense.”

John nods, gazing at Sherlock thoughtfully, wondering once again why exactly he was turned into a horse. Does the serum work like Polyjuice Potion and can be modified to turn anybody into any animal, perhaps by adding parts of their respective DNA? Or do people transform into a creature that bears some resemblance to them? So far, the transformations have seemed rather random. Even though Sherlock does have a somewhat horsey face in his human form, and dark hair, nothing else about him indicates a resemblance to a Frisian. John allows himself a brief moment of speculation what animals he might have ended up as, before shaking his head. “Do you know anything more about the mysterious Mr. Potter?”

Lestrade nods. Apparently having overcome his initial wonder, he steps closer to Sherlock. “Your eyes are still the same,” he states, looking up into Sherlock’s face at which the latter snorts impatiently, obviously eager for more information. Lestrade obliges.

“In fact, yes. Potter was a journalist, a freelancer working for a number of newspapers, magazines and also scientific journals. Originally from Lincoln, he read biology at Loughborough but quit before achieving a degree, and moved to Greater London about four years ago. His girlfriend said there were some problems with his student loans, but we dug a bit and found out that Mr. Potter spent some time abroad in the US after an alleged involvement in a doping scandal at university. He was an avid runner, and in his early twenties he seems to have been really good, with chances of making the national selection. But then things went pear-shaped, or rather, syringe-shaped, and he went through a rough patch until he reemerged as a journalist.”

Sherlock snorts again, and John remembers his initial reaction at the name of Potter. Given that Sherlock has absolutely no detailed knowledge of the JK Rowling books, John assumes that he recognised the name because he read it before, likely in conjunction with some of the articles Sherlock devoured over the past few days. And indeed, Sherlock turns and begins to rummage in the heap of hay where he hides his reading material. Lestrade watches him in wonder, his eyes widening almost comically when Sherlock fishes out a crumpled print-out with his teeth and holds it up to him.

Hesitantly, Lestrade takes it, glancing at John as if to ask him what this is all about, until his eyes fall on the article proper, and the name of the author.

“Bloody hell, this fellow was writing about the break-in at UCL,” he mutters. Sherlock nods vigorously. Lestrade looks up at him. “This could be a coincidence, but you don’t believe it is, do you? Gosh, Sherlock, how many articles and newspapers have you hidden in there? Did you provide them for him, Dr. Watson?” he asks, taking in the torch mounted to the partition wall and the stacks of paper half hidden by hay and straw.

John shrugs. “I had to keep him entertained or he likely would have turned mad in here.”

“I think we owe you a great deal, doctor,” declares Lestrade appreciatively. “How on earth did you notice that there was actually a human inside this creature. Or did his brother tell you?”

“No, his brother took great care of not telling me anything while not exactly lying to me, either, at least when we first met. He was a bit more obliging afterwards, but only because I insisted. Guess that’s politicians for you. I simply ... don’t know ... stayed around and looked and listened, and noticed that Sherlock seemed to be able to understand me. Eventually I found out that he could read, too. First I thought I was going completely round the bend and imagining things, but then ... it was the only thing that made sense, really. I thought he was a genetic experiment before the thought struck me that he might be a human turned animal. Pretty much like in Harry Potter, or Spiderman or what have you. I thought I was caught up in some kind of weird fantasy or sci-fi story, but it was the only thing that made sense, in the end. So I just ... don’t know, believed it. Isn’t there this saying that if you’ve eliminated the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true? Anyway, I did some research, found his website and articles about his cases, and ... yeah, things started to make sense. And once his brother confirmed that Sherlock is indeed, well, Sherlock, we started investigating properly by researching stuff online, until I asked him whether he wanted me to check his emails, and that’s how I learned about his last case. And then we contacted you.”

Lestrade nods absently, staring at Sherlock. “And how do you communicate, since he can’t talk?”

“Well, I talk to him and he replies with nods and snorts and shakes of his head, as you just witnessed. Sometimes he writes things down with a pen in his muzzle or his hooves on the ground. It works surprisingly well.”

Lestrade looks up at Sherlock and smiles. Slowly, he raises his hand and carefully places it near Sherlock’s muzzle. Sherlock makes his eye-rolling movement. With a snort, he nudges the hand. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d be forced to keep your mouth shut for an extended period of time,” comments Lestrade, wiping his hand on his coat with a soft laugh. “Normally, one barely manages to keep him silent for a few minutes, and to get a word in edgewise. But in his defence I have to say that he does sprout some intelligent and helpful things in between insulting myself, my team and everybody else in his vicinity.”

Sherlock glares at him, then nudges him again.

“I think he wants more information about Mr. Potter, if you have any,” translates John. “Have they found out anything at Bart’s yet? Dr. Hooper and the others doing the autopsy, I mean?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “No, not yet. They have to keep things hushed up, which doesn’t really accelerates them. A part of the morgue and the laboratories have been screened off so they can work in peace and relative secrecy. Samples of Miss Wickham’s body are being studied as well, but so far without any results I know about that would hint at how she managed to turn herself back. If it was indeed her, which seems likely. Molly – Dr. Hooper – found two puncture wounds on her left arm, and Mr. Holmes’ scientists are analysing blood and tissue samples. We’ve also got a report from one of her neighbours who saw an apparently owner-less Alsatian near her flat on the evening of her death. He called RSPCA to come and fetch it, because it seemed stressed and barely touched the dog-food he put out for it, but when they arrived it was gone. He recalls that his own dog seemed nervous and out of sorts throughout the following night, however, and he thinks that he heard a dog howl and yelp for a while until it fell silent, or was silenced. In fact, the Alsatian shows up on several CCTV tapes of the area. It seems to have been wandering around a lot that night. The last recording is from around midnight. The footage is being analysed, and we are trying to find more witnesses who saw the dog or even interacted with it. As soon as we know more, I’ll let you know. About your stag man, Potter, as well. I was wondering whether you could give me more information about the accident, since you were at the site shortly after it happened. I’ve seen the photographs, and Mr. Holmes’ assistant sent on what information her team gathered, and we have the report from Sergeant Cooper of Richmond Police, of course, who dealt with the accident, but I’m sure they missed things.”

He looks at Sherlock expectantly, who lets out a frustrated snort. John is certain that he resents not being able to talk more than ever. He relates what he found out and shows Lestrade the photographs he took with his phone, mostly close-ups of the creature’s injuries and of his eyes. “Sherlock recognised them as human eyes, that’s why we stayed on and I called his brother in the first place.”

Lestrade nods. “Oh, wait, I’ve got a photograph of the deceased. From his Facebook profile, and some more from his Instagram account.”

He holds out his phone for John and Sherlock to see. The pictures show a tall, slender, athletic looking man sporting a tan, and, in most of the photographs, a broad smile. He seems to have kept up running, because some pictures show him in sports gear. One close-up shot reveals his green eyes. If John had to choose an animal which resembles him, he would indeed have picked a stag or an antelope because of his long legs and narrow face with its distinctive, wide-set eyes and large ears. The hair-colour, a light, sun-bleached brown, matches the coat of a red deer well.

“Are these pics recent?” he asks.

“Fairly, yes.”

Sherlock moves in closer and squints at the display, then snorts and blows air into John’s hair. Lestrade barely manages to suppress a grin. “Pity indeed he can’t talk. Otherwise we’d likely be hearing a full deduction of the poor bloke. Anything you observed, Sherlock? Tanlines, peculiar stains on his clothing?”

Sherlock nods, and shocking John, he leans in and licks over his nose. “Sherlock, what the fuck? I’ve told you before that it’s gross. Oh wait, my nose ... I almost got sunburn there when I fell asleep in the meadow yesterday. So you want us to look at his tan, right?

Sherlock nods. “Amazing,” murmurs Lestrade around an amused chuckle.

John takes the phone and looks through the photos again. “He is pretty tanned. Either he spent time at a solarium ... but wait, he sports distinct tanlines. So no sunbathing. Likely he spent time abroad. Did his girlfriend mention that he’s been away on holiday recently. He can’t have acquired this tan round here, at least not with sunlight alone?”

“No. Actually, she complained about the lack of one. They had planned to go to Switzerland over New Year’s for a spot of skiing, but Potter cancelled last minute claiming he had to work, she said. Apparently there was some financial issue as well. He was away for work a few times since then, according to her, but he didn’t tell her where, which naturally she resented.”

“This sounds a lot like the dead UCL researcher, doesn’t it?” muses John. “She, too, seems to have been very busy lately, cut contact with her friends, seemed stressed and unhappy.”

“Yes, that’s what we thought as well. My team is working on his itinerary. Donovan is going to have a look at his flat tomorrow, and we’re checking with some of his colleagues from work as well, and with his parents to find out more about his background."

“How did you discover his identity so quickly?” John wants to know. “He can’t have been the only missing person in Greater London.”

“Luck, I guess,” admits Lestrade with a shrug. “When I read the name, I, well, I thought of _Harry Potter_. My niece just read the books and is completely taken with the characters. Draws pictures and what not, and writes stories, and talks about them all the time. I’ve only watched two or so of the films, but I remembered that Harry’s father was able to turn himself into a stag. First I considered it a silly idea, but Sergeant Donovan apparently had the same. We went through the missing persons files and, well, chucked out anybody who didn’t bear a faint resemblance to a deer, stag or antelope. Potter was the best match by far, and being local and only reported missing recently, we pursued his case further. Then Donovan pointed out the eye thing, and so we looked through photos showing Potter and found this one here that has a clear depiction of his irises, because Mr. Holmes’ team had told us that apparently they remain unchanged in the transformation – don’t ask me how that works scientifically, but I guess Sherlock here is another proof that it does work. We sent it to Bart’s and they did an iris scan, and found they matched. We even checked with his optician – Potter wore contact lenses – who’d done a retina scan last year. They did another at Bart’s and they matched as well. We can’t really do a DNA test, can we, but what evidence we have accumulated so far, it all points towards Potter being the stag man.”

He turns to Sherlock who has been watching him quietly and raises an eyebrow, almost as if asking for approval. Sherlock nods appreciatively, as if to say that for once, the Met has actually functioned and done their work well.

Lestrade inclines his head as a thanks. “As I said, I’m going to keep you informed. Will you be here tomorrow, Dr. Watson?”

“Yes,” answers John, before sneezing loudly. “Sorry. I seem to have caught a bit of a cold today. Guess I should get myself home.” Sherlock makes a grumbling sound at this, and John pats his neck. “You need to rest, too, after all this running today.”

“Whereabouts do you live?” Lestrade wants to know.

“Brixton.”

“In that case I can give you a lift. Preferable to the Tube, I’d say.”

“Very,” agrees John with a smile. “Cheers. Let me finish looking after this one first, and check in with Clara about tomorrow and the weekend ahead so that I can arrange things with my other job, and then I’m good to go.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

In truth, John is not only grateful for the convenience and relative comfort of the drive in comparison to a walk to the station, a train journey and another walk to his flat. He also appreciates the fact that he can ask Lestrade some questions about Sherlock. Lestrade seems likewise interested in interviewing John about their unique relationship. John gives him a more detailed account of how their friendship began, before enquiring how Lestrade met Sherlock.

Lestrade gazes ahead thoughtfully as he drives. “I’ve known him for almost ten years now, but according to my knowledge he never had a friend before. There are some people he tolerates to work with such as Molly Hooper, and his most recent landlady absolutely adores him, but before that, he never showed much interest in another human being unless they were dead. Some on my team positively loathe him, and I can understand why. Particularly in the early days, he was a right arse. Deduced people mercilessly, just because he could, laying open all their petty little secrets – love-affairs, gambling debts, family dramas, you name it. Got himself into trouble repeatedly by insulting or downright traumatising witnesses, or haring off to investigate crime scenes without permission and endangering himself and others. A nightmare to work with, I can tell you.”

“Why have you put up with him all those years, then?” asks John.

Lestrade draws up his shoulders and lets out a long sigh. “Because I’m desperate, that’s why. Because he’s absolutely brilliant at what he does. We wouldn’t have solved half of our cases without him. You haven’t really seen him in action yet. There were times when he strolled up to a murder victim, looked at their fingernails or some stain on their shoes or a plant seed caught on their clothing and pointed out who the killer was. Without forensics, fingerprints, anything. Just by looking closely and putting things together at lightning speed in this extraordinary brain of his. Simply amazing. But I guess what he exceeds at in brainpower he lacks in social graces. In the early days he still lived at a dingy little place on Montague Street. I think he had two flatmates, one after another. The second one even managed to stay longer than two days, but then fled the place as well. After that, Sherlock’s always been on his own, as far as I know.”

“No partners, either?” enquires John. “Girlfriends, boyfriends?”

“Sherlock, a partner?” Both of Lestrade’s eyebrows have wandered into his hairline. “God, no. Nothing longterm and steady, definitely. And I strongly doubt that Sherlock is one for casual sex. Or sex at all. When I first met him I thought he might be gay and closeted. I know at least two of my officers who tried to ask him out for a date. He shot them down mercilessly, and after the second attempt voiced his opinion on the ... how did he call it ... ‘waste of time and energy, and, what’s worse, mental capacity which is dating, and all the boring, petty rituals it encompasses.’ Yeah, those were his words. One of the constables actually told him he simply needed a good shag, and God, you should have seen the look he gave him. Actually, my belief is that he simply has no interest in these matters. At all. Perhaps he’s asexual, or celibate, or he’s had some bad experiences in the past and is simply fed up by the whole dating business. It’s all just transport to him, you see. Eating, sleeping, sex. To be honest, I don’t care, as long as he comes in and helps me with cases. Or lets me tag along while he solves them. That said, I saw how he was around you today. Not sure it’s because he needs you to look after him and communicate with the outside world on his behalf, but he ... I don’t know. He really seemed to care about you. Value your opinion and all that, and he looked kinda worried when you talked about your cold. At least I thought he did. And he seemed surprisingly relaxed around you, even mischievous, playful. Never seen him like this before.”

John smiles wryly, suppressing another sneeze. His throat has begun to feel scratchy and ache dully. He hopes that his local supermarket is still open so he can buy some lemons for a hot drink tonight. Clearing his throat, he says, “I think you’re right. I didn’t know Sherlock before he was turned into a horse, but I, too, believe he has mellowed. The first day he was highly suspicious and even aggressive, but after he noticed that I cared and wasn’t about to hurt him, he quickly calmed down. And now ... I know it sounds strange, but I think he actually has come to like me. At least I hope he has, because ... well, I like him. He can be sulky and mischievous, and also a bit of a drama-queen. But on the other hand there are moments when he is really kind and even affectionate. A few days ago he let some little girls braid his mane and stick flowers into it, and so completely made their day. Sounds a bit like the fairy-tale, I know. But perhaps having been turned into an animal and having to rely on others did indeed change him for the better.”

Lestrade nods thoughtfully after chuckling about the description of Sherlock’s treatment by Mike’s daughters. “I only hope he won’t forget his lesson once he’s human-shaped again.”

John lets out a long breath. Lestrade’s words touch upon something he is secretly worried about. As much as he wants to help Sherlock to regain his original form, a part of him, a selfish part, he knows, wonders what will happen then. Will Sherlock even remember their time together, or will his memory be wiped clear? Will he resent John from having seen him in such a vulnerable, helpless state (at least for a while, because despite Sherlock not being able to talk and type his own emails, John considers him all but helpless and dependent)? John realises how dear Sherlock has become to him, and how loathe he is to lose their friendship.

To distract himself from these heavy thoughts, he asks Lestrade, “How did you meet him? Did he just ... dunno, show up at a crime scene?”

“In a way, yes,” replies Lestrade. “I came across him during an investigation into a drug smuggling ring somewhere in the East End. Must have been back in 2005 or ’06, I think. We’d been after this gang for ages. They were involved in all kinds of shady businesses: illegal gambling, prostitution, even trafficking. And the drugs, of course. I was still a sergeant back then, and we were all frustrated because even though we were pretty sure who was behind all this shite, we couldn’t get hold of them. Not legally, anyway. But then we got this anonymous tip off, staged a raid and captured half the gang. Some of the higher ups managed to run, but again with the help of a tip off, we trapped one of them in one of those council estates up in Tower Hamlets. We’d hoped to take the fellow in quietly, but when we turned up he was already alerted to our presence and we chased him all over the block, meaning that everybody and their aunt living there got a good eyeful. In the end we caught him – or so we thought. Just when we were about to bundle him into our car, this kid stepped up to us and boldly claimed that we caught the wrong man, and that the true culprit was hiding in one of the flats and likely watching us. The people in charge didn’t want to listen, and to be honest, I took the kid for a local no-gooder, and likely a junkie. He definitely looked like one. But he insisted we listen to him, told us all those things about the man we caught and about who we were looking for, and I got this suspicion that he was the one who’d tipped us off. There was something strange about him, too. He had the local slang down to a tee, but it was almost too ... authentic. And his looks and mannerisms, too. They seemed ... rehearsed, studied. Also, he got onto all our nerves because he simply wouldn’t shut his trap, so in the end I told him to either shut up and piss off, or that I’d take him into custody. And then the fellow starts sprouting stuff about me, right in front of my colleagues and half of bloody Tower Hamlets. Told me about my troubled marriage as if I didn’t know about it myself, and my issues with some of my superiors, and also that if I didn’t listen to him I’d very likely not have a chance for promotion in the next decade.”

“Wow,” manages John, not knowing whether he should be impressed. “What did you do?”

Lestrade gives a soft laugh. “Told him his rights and shoved him into the bloody car. But I also told the rest of my squad to have a look at the flat he indicated, and bingo, there was our man, pretending to be invalid and bedridden, and totally innocent, of course. Back at the Yard I took another look at the fellow. The informant, I mean. As soon as we’d left the estate, he dropped his act. When he spoke next, it was with a posh, clipped accent. He bore himself differently, too. Became a totally different person. I was both impressed and annoyed. He told me his name was Sherlock Holmes and that it was my lucky day that I’d finally seen the light and started listening to him. Called himself a consulting detective and claimed that he was the only one in the world because he invented the job. I thought he was completely off the rocker. Bit of a genius, perhaps, but mental all the same, and possibly high as a kite because he was talking like a waterfall and looking more than a bit dishevelled. Bit strung out and underweight, too. He must have been in his late twenties already back then, but he looked like twelve – have you ever seen a picture of him, by the way? As a human, I mean?”

John nods and Lestrade continues, “Well, back then he wasn’t yet prancing about in his ridiculous coat and his fancy suits. Thin, tousle-haired, wearing a hoody and baggy jeans and trainers like the rest of the lot, I wasn’t sure he was a junkie with a huge ego and sense of entitlement, or if he was still playing some part. Anyway, so I took him back to the station and searched him, and voila, there’s a stash of cocaine hidden not very expertly in the pocket of his hoody. It was enough to convict him. He tried to convince me it was to lend credibility to his act, the undercover work at Tower Hamlets, but a drug screening showed that he had been using as well. Not much, and apparently not regularly, but enough to get him into trouble with the law. So we kept him at the station until some posh elderly bloke came in and bailed him out. He looked like a butler of some kind, but I suspect it really was his dad. Don’t remember the name he gave. Anyway, I thought that was it, and didn’t think about him for a day or two. And then on the following weekend when I’m on my way back home after watching Arsenal at my local pub, suddenly there’s a dark car stopping next to me and a lady inviting me in. Or not so much inviting me, but threatening me. I don’t scare easily, definitely not, but there was something about her that gave me the chills. At first I thought a local mobster had caught up with me because of the razzia. So I get into the car, and there’s another posh bloke in a three-piece suit and an umbrella. I think you know that one. Turns out he’s the little junkie’s brother and runs half the country (or all of it). After trying to both intimidate and blackmail me, he offers me a deal: apparently his little brother has been worrying him for a while and needs looking after, or rather, he needs a task to keep him out of trouble. A handler. And this task I, says Umbrella Man, can provide by letting him work on cases. I tell him I can’t do that. Classified information and all that, but the man assures me that he can take care of these matters. I feel inclined to believe him, but insist that his brother first needs to prove that he’s clean and manages to stay so.”

“And Sherlock agreed to this deal?”

“Apparently, yes. Not sure how his brother managed to convince him, or if perhaps he saw sense and agreed voluntarily. Two months later he showed up at the station, with proof of a successful stint in rehab, and insisted that I let him see the files of the Bermondsey triple murder. I agreed, not even wondering how he learned of it as it had been kept out of the press, and he solved it in two days, and, well, that was that, really. After that, he became a regular, sort of.”

“And the drugs?” asks John, because ever since he read about Sherlock’s time in rehab, he wondered – and worried – about them.

Lestrade shrugs. “I once asked him about them. He said he only ever used cocaine, and only when boredom got so pressing that he didn’t see another way out and was in sore need of mental stimulation. And I feel inclined to believe him. He’s a graduate chemist, and he explained to me in detail how he used the drug, calculated dosages and everything. Very meticulous, the whole setup, down to percentages. He also only used top quality, stuff you can’t really get on the streets, medical grade. No idea where he got it from, and I don’t want to know. Never met another junkie like that. He didn’t seem to suffer from withdrawal, either. I mean, two months in rehab isn’t long, especially with cocaine. The only thing he did after was smoking, quite a lot, too. Don’t know what made him stop that as well, but for the past two or three years he didn’t anymore, or only rarely. He was on nicotine patches, though.”

He absently scratches the arm which bears his own. “Never seen him drunk, or even drink alcohol. Not really one for social gatherings, Sherlock. And during one case that involved a murder over a private cannabis plantation, he claimed he never tried the stuff. Not even in uni. I mean, almost everybody tries it during that time, don’t they? But he was rather dismissive about all these substances, party drugs, you might call them, said he didn’t see the point of getting high just for the ‘fun’ of it. I didn’t bring up that apparently he used to inject cocaine because he was bored. And given that he’s not exactly the socialising type, I have a feeling that he really didn’t try them. He might have for scientific purposes, but not, you know, recreationally, at a social event. He really is a funny guy, Sherlock.”

“Definitely,” agrees John. Watching Lestrade quietly, he adds, “But you like him, don’t you?”

Lestrade nods. “Yes, I do. Perhaps he stirs my paternal instincts, or perhaps because deep down, under his hard shell and arrogant, abrasive exterior, he’s a good guy. A bit lonely, too. And what’s more, I believe he has the potential of becoming a great man one day. If he doesn’t get himself killed first.”

He briefly glances at John and smiles. “It’s a big relief to know that he has someone to look after him now. Other than his brother, I mean, who doesn’t really count.”

He’s right, thinks John, but he also knows that his relationship with Sherlock goes both ways. Sherlock needs him, but he needs Sherlock, too. It feels good to be needed, and he also relishes the adventure Sherlock’s mysterious story promises. Moreover, he increasingly enjoys his unusual friend’s company. Seems that not only Sherlock needed a companion, but he, too.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Lestrade drops him off at a Sainsbury’s close to where he lives, where he manages to buy some lemons and other essentials before they close. The night is rather miserable. John’s throat is sore, and his nose runny. He is tempted to call in sick at the clinic, but feels like cheating if he’s to go to Sunny Meadows instead. Not going there is not an option, so he drags himself to work in the morning, realising while walking past some election posters on his way to the clinic that he has no idea who won the election. At the clinic it’s the one main topic of conversation amongst staff and people in the waiting room, meaning he’s quickly up to date and feeling somewhat bad for not taking part.

On his way to Sunny Meadows after lunchtime he wonders how much string-pulling Mycroft Holmes has had to undertake to secure the Tories in power, or if he even had his hands in the outcome. Surely, somebody like him would vote Conservative, wouldn’t he. With a smile, John considers who Sherlock might have voted for, and can’t think of a single party whose programme he might be interested in. So far, Sherlock has shown no interest in politics at all. John doubts he even knows who the old (and new) Prime Minister is.

Indeed, Sherlock has other worries than recent politics when John arrives at his stall. His leg is hurting him. Despite the poultice, the joint has swollen again. Because the weather remains windy with the promise of more rain, John convinces him to stay indoors. For two hours, Sherlock remains sulky and uncooperative, but then calms down when he notices that John is feeling decidedly unwell, too, and certainly not up for an extended stroll or ride outside.

Throughout the afternoon, as promised, Lestrade sends over new information about the stag man case. All witnesses of the accident agree that the stag ran right into the car in utter panic, but nobody saw anything chasing him. The rangers said that the other deer seemed comparably calm. The tissue tests conducted at Bart’s confirm a high level of lactate in the creature’s muscles, pointing toward strong exercise over an extended period of time. John recalls the sweaty coat of the stag, and the flecks of foam at his muzzle. He must have been running for a while, especially given the general physical fitness of the victim, both as a human and a deer, and must have been in great distress.

John relates his musings to Sherlock, who is shuffling about in his stall as best he can with his bandaged hind leg. As is his wont when he appears to be deep in thought, he is making soft noises to himself. John isn’t sure he is even aware of them. Suddenly, he stops, and looks at John intently. A sharp neigh and a tug at John’s jumper alert the doctor to his epiphany.

John looks up from where he has been reading one of Stephen Potter’s articles which he has found online. “Sherlock? What’s the matter?”

Sherlock snorts excitedly and continues to nose and then pull at John’s jumper with his teeth. “Oi, what do you want with my clothes?”

Sherlock neighs. John gapes at him as realisation dawns. “Clothes,” he mutters. “What happened to their clothes? What happened to _your_ clothes? Have they been found? Did you still wear them when you were transformed? They must have been ruined, seams burst and everything.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You woke up without clothes, or their remains?” Sherlock nods.

“Meaning somebody took them off first? Did you take them off? Do you remember what you wore the day you went to investigate Wickham’s flat?”

Sherlock snorts and nods towards John’s rucksack where a portfolio John keeps some of the printouts in peeks out. The photo of human Sherlock is in there, too, and John understands.

“You wore your normal clothes, you mean? Right. That would be suit, shirt, and your coat. The blue scarf, too? Okay. Want me to call Lestrade and ask whether they’ve been found? Okay.”

Lestrade sounds a little out of breath when he finally answers his phone. “Sherlock wants me to enquire whether his clothes were found at Miss Wickham’s flat, and about her and Potter’s clothes, too, which they wore on the day of their transformation. Do we have any information about what they might have been wearing. CCTV footage or witness reports or anything?”

“In Potter’s case, yes. We got CCTV images showing him in Wimbledon heading towards Putney Common two days ago, attired in running gear. He never returned home, it seems, and didn’t call his girlfriend in the evening. But shit, you’re right. He’d have left his clothes behind when he was transformed. His mobile, too, most likely, since we didn’t find it in the flat. We’re trying to track it, but it might be that it didn’t survive the rain yesterday if it remained outside, or else that the battery has run out. As for Sherlock’s stuff, none of it was found at Wickham’s flat. We weren’t particularly looking for it, of course, but at least his Belstaff and the scarf would have been recognised by my team, if that was what he was wearing.”

“It was, if I understood him correctly,” John informs him. “Oh, wait, he’s trying to write something with his hoof.”

**221B**

John forwards it to Lestrade, who draws in a breath. “Do you know what it means?” he asks.

“It’s Sherlock’s home address. 221B Baker Street. Does he want us to check whether his clothes are there?”

“He nods, so yes. Apparently he doesn’t remember the events immediately before his transformation.”

“Right, I’ll call his landlady. Oh, wait, Donovan’s just signalled me that apparently Potter’s phone has been localised. Somewhere near Wimbledon Common. I’ll have somebody investigate.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Two frustrating hours later, during which Sherlock nearly wears a groove into the floor with his restless, impatient pacing, Lestrade himself shows up, carrying a large bag containing several evidence bags filled with the remains of Stephen Potter’s running clothes. They’re wet and muddy, and look like they’ve not just lain a night in the rain, but have been through a shredder, too.

Sherlock seems almost overwhelmed by excitement as he is forced to wait for Lestrade to spread out the evidence bags. “I can’t take them out or they will be contaminated,” he apologises, but is there anything you can see through the plastic? I ... er ... brought a magnifier, very much like the one you use. Not sure if it’ll be any help now, but ....” He shrugs and hands the instrument to John, who hunkers down next to the bags with Sherlock’s large head next to him.

“I’m not sure, but it looks to me like there are plenty of hairs on the clothes, clumped together by he moisture,” muses John. “Do you see them, too?” Sherlock nods, then points towards the remains of the blue running tights which are indeed burst at the seams. John leans in closer.

“There appears to be a darker stain near where his buttocks would have been. Could be blood. It’s difficult to see on the dark fabric.”

Sherlock nods, before picking up a stalk of hay with his teeth and making a stabbing motion to John’s backside. “You mean he was injected there? But why so much blood? A small puncture wound wouldn’t bleed as much, unless ...,” John looks up at Lestrade, then at Sherlock. Licking his lips, he continues, “unless he was running when he was injected, and was shot with a dart which then either caused him to fall and roll over, tearing it out, or he plucked it out himself. So either someone tranquilised him, or he was injected with the serum that way.”

Lestrade nods, his eyes wide. “I’ll tell the team at Bart’s to check for a puncture wound on the deer’s body.”

“I guess you didn’t find a dart with his clothes, did you?”

“No. His phone wasn’t in the exact same place, either. We found it stuffed into a tree-hole, while his clothes were scattered over a thicket several hundred yards away. The dogs found them. But we’re having the area searched more meticulously right now. Unfortunately, it’s raining again, so we’re not confident that we’re going to find much more of use. But if your theory is correct and he was indeed injected, this means somebody who knew his routine was waiting for him, and that he was transformed on purpose.”

“Yes, there must be something linking him to Wickham, or to what she was working on. His articles don’t hold many clues, at least that’s what Sherlock and I believe. They’re mostly speculative. But perhaps he was working on a big coup.”

“Maybe. Our IT people are having a look at his computer and his online activities as we speak, and his phone will hopefully yield more clues. Well, I have to dash. I’ll keep you informed, yeah? And get better soon, doc, and you, too, Sherlock. Oh, by the way, what’s this big party the owner of this place, Clara, told me about?”

“They’re planning to launch the farm shop and café on Sunday, and have been working tirelessly towards it. Depending how well publicity works and if the weather plays along, the place will likely be swamped with people. I hope Sherlock and I will have recovered by then so that we can spend the day elsewhere. I doubt he’d cope well with a host of children wanting to pet him.”

Lestrade laughs. “Wise decision, although speaking of publicity, you two do make a very nice promotional couple for the shelter. I’ve had a look at their website yesterday, and you are featuring quite prominently right on the starting page.”

John blushes at this, and Sherlock makes a contemptuous sound which causes Lestrade to grin and hold up his phone for the two of them to see. Like John expected, in its header, the recently revamped Sunny Meadows homepage bears a shiny picture of Sherlock and himself dozing on a flowery meadow.

“Great,” he mutters glumly. Lestrade, however, claps his shoulder amicably. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s a good photo. Never seen you look so peaceful and content before, Sherlock. As much as this whole horse thing must irk you, perhaps it’s not all bad, yeah? Right, I must be off. Take care, you two. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Even though Lestrade keeps his promise and feeds Sherlock’s inbox with bits and pieces of information about the two victims, as well as mentioning that Sherlock’s coat and scarf arrived at his flat via parcel five days ago, delivered by one of his homeless network to Mrs. Hudson, his landlady. The girl who brought them told her she had picked them up at a dry cleaner’s on Baker Street after receiving a message from Sherlock’s phone, which has since disappeared off the radar and can’t be localised online. There is no sign of Sherlock’s suit, shirt and underwear, and the Belstaff and scarf have been laundered and even disinfected, bearing no trace of horse-hair, nor even of Sherlock’s original DNA.

John wonders who’d take care to return the coat, but even Sherlock seems to have no idea, and spends most of Saturday afternoon silently walking next to John as he takes him out to pasture for some light exercise, seemingly deep in contemplation, but uncommunicative about his thoughts.

Sherlock’s leg is still bothering him far more than he lets on, and John is constantly blowing his nose and battling a cough that has settled on his bronchia and doesn’t want to shift. In between looking after Sherlock, he helps Clara and his sister and the rest of the volunteers at the shelter to set up everything for the party. By Saturday evening, he is bone tired and briefly nods off hunched into a corner of Sherlock’s stall. He wakes with a start, feeling smothered by something warm and smelly, to recognise it as Sherlock who has settled down next to him, resting his neck over John’s shoulders with his heavy mane spilling over his chest. His head is resting next to John’s, wedged in between the partition and John’s side.

It can’t be comfortable, thinks John when he blinks open his eyes to take in the unusual arrangement, but apparently Sherlock doesn’t mind. He wakes with a snort, again looking faintly disoriented before recognising John, who brushes Sherlock’s forelock out of his eyes.

“Hello, thanks for keeping me warm,” he murmurs, and Sherlock replies with a soft snicker, rubbing his muzzle against John’s shoulder once and lifting off his head and struggling to his feet. John looks up at him sorting out his legs and smiles, feeling warmth flood him that has nothing to do with Sherlock’s body heat. Sherlock catches his glance and quiets his movements, gazing at him solemnly, before making a strange, almost embarrassed sound in his throat and turning away. John believes that if he were able to, he’d be blushing.

That evening, even more than usual he finds himself loathe to leave Sherlock, finding excuses to linger in the stable until he is hard pressed to catch the last train back to Brixton.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Right in time for the feast, the weather clears, the sun peeks from white clouds in a blue sky. Spring returns with a vengeance after the autumnal winds and temperatures of the previous days. Sherlock is frisky when John arrives relatively early in the morning, snorting impatiently as a greeting and holding the blue headcollar up to John as a clear invitation. John checks his leg first and pronounced him fit for a walk, but not a ride.

“I should be helping with looking after the guests,” he tells Sherlock reproachfully, “not entertaining you all day.”

Sherlock neighs in protest, and John relents. “Yeah, all right, given that I didn’t spend much time with you yesterday and we may have some things to discuss concerning Potter and Wickham and the new data Lestrade sent last night, I agree that a stroll outside might be in order. Let’s go to Putney Heath this time. It’s not that far.”

Clara, Harry and the other volunteers don’t seem to mind when John makes his excuses. “Could you take Tequila as well?” asks Hal. “She needs the exercise, but her owners are out of the country this weekend, and I’m needed here. You can ride her and lead Sherlock by your side, if he doesn’t mind.”

Sherlock seems less than happy about the arrangement, but reluctantly agrees to suffer the mare’s company when John tells him that riding her would ease his leg greatly. He doesn’t tell his friend that he also wants to watch his and Tequila’s behaviour closely to determine if she is spooked or irritated by Sherlock’s proximity.

Tequila Sunrise turns out to be a nervous, skittish creature who barely suffers to walk across gully covers and shies at every passing car, bird or human. A small dog yelping and barking at her almost sends her into a frenzy which is only contained by Sherlock bodily blocking her progress and snorting at her angrily. She gives him a confused glance at this, but calms down. John thanks Sherlock effusively, and vows to bring him a cake all for himself the next day.

Due to John’s mount being so difficult to ride, they spend less time discussing their cases than John and Sherlock would have liked to. Sherlock reverts to sulking mode and skulks behind Tequila. Only when they encounter an elderly woman photographing a flock of crows out on Putney Heath he lifts his head and snickers softly, as if something about the photographer caught his interest. John watches first him, then the woman who greets them friendlily. Again he feels the tingle in the back of his mind as he recalls their encounter with the wildlife photographer in Richmond Park. And then it strikes him.

“Sherlock, do you remember what the photographer said?” he asks his friend excitedly.

Sherlock nods, pawing at the ground. John sees that he is attempting to write or draw something. “Antlers?” Sherlock nods and John grins, clapping his neck. “That’s what I was thinking as well. I didn’t remark on it at the time, but you did, didn’t you? The photographer, he knew that a _stag_ had been involved in the collision, despite me not having mentioned it. I only talked about the deer. This means that either he was around longer than he claimed, and witnessed and perhaps even photographed the accident. Or that he was involved in it to an even greater extend.”

Sherlock nods vigorously. Excitedly, John withdraws his phone and types a text to Lestrade in which he describes the photographer. Lestrade calls back immediately, and John adds, “He was later joined by another bloke. We only saw them from far off, so I didn’t see his features. But I think he was wearing army clothing or fatigues as well, and was taller than the photographer. They got into a dark green car, some kind of jeep, I think, and drove off towards Richmond.”

“Cheers,” Lestrade thanks him. “We’ll see what we can find out. Speaking of new information, there’s very little on the science front. The serum didn’t work on the tissue samples, at least not to the effect of altering the DNA. Our scientists assume that it’s only effective in living tissue, but since the only life model we know of at the moment is Sherlock, and the serum is far from safe, we can’t try it on him yet, even if he’d likely volunteer a test subject. So no good news there. According to the folks at Barts and the other labs, it’s going to take several weeks if not months until they’re confident they have modified the Baskerville prototype enough for a trial.”

Sherlock snorts in frustration at this and John gives him a pitying glance, although a small part of him is almost relieved that this way, the status quo will be maintained for a little longer.

“That’s not all, though,” Lestrade goes on. “We found what looks like a tranquiliser dart in the vicinity of Potter’s clothes and phone. It contained a strong anaesthetic, that would have knocked him off his feet immediately. So apparently somebody who knew his routines (according to his running companions he habitually frequented the area for his exercises) lay in wait for him with a gun and shot a dart at him. Presumably he was then dragged into the thicket where we found his gear and injected with the serum. Sadly, the recent rains destroyed what tracks or footprints might have been there.

“We’ve had a look at Potter’s phone records and online activities, and it looks like he was in contact with Wickham shortly before her disappearance and death. More importantly, she seems to have contacted him initially. Apparently they had known each other for some time, and had maintained loose contact via Facebook. She knew about his journalistic work, and this seems to have been the reason for her reaching out to him. They met twice, the last time two days before her death. There’s CCTV footage of them having coffee at the Starbucks at Camden Lock. We don’t know what exactly they talked about, but according to her initial messages, it seems that she thought she had a story that might interest him. We can only assume that it was something about her work. We’re on to it. Interestingly, one of her friends who seems to have fallen on hard times and set up an Indigogo campaign to finance her living expenses received a large anonymous donation shortly after the meeting at Starbucks. The money was charged to one of Potter’s credit cards, so perhaps he paid as a kind of investment, in the hope of scoring big with his story. Anyway, that’s about what news I’ve got. We have a meeting with Wickham’s colleagues at UCL tomorrow. Hopefully they will be able to shed some light on what exactly she was working on, and how Potter might fit into all this. You two, take care. I’ll keep you informed.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

They return to Sunny Meadows in the early afternoon, after Clara sends a short message asking John to help them guide new visitors round the place. Apparently far more showed up than expected, as is evidenced by the long queue of cars lining the drive leading up to the house. Even some of the side-streets of the shelter are nearly blocked with parking cars. Upon their arrival, the two horses are immediately ringed by enthusiastic children and their not quite as keen parents. Some of the kids have already been to the face-painting artist, and others to the café for ice-cream and chocolate cake. They _oooh_ and _aaah_ at Sherlock and Tequila, asking shyly whether they may pet them. John allows it for a brief while, hoping that the horses won’t mind, but at least Sherlock doesn’t complain and appears to actually enjoying the attention, while Tequila remains her high-strung, frisky self. Afterwards, he takes them inside, shutting Sherlock in his stall with the promise of visiting again later. Hal comes over to relieve him of Tequila’s care.

“I’ll see to her tack and hose her down, no problem. Might as well make a demonstration for the children out of it,” he says. Gratefully, John leaves him to the task.

Briefly deliberating whether to pop into the café or the kitchen for a quick bite, he decides against it after seeing the queues extending over the courtyard. Instead, he seeks out Clara who promptly charges him with taking a group of visitors on a tour of the cattery.

Two hours later, John manages to grab a quick bite and a drink, and flees into the rear part of the stable which is off limits to visitors to have his belated lunch in peace and quiet. Sherlock seems skittish and bored at the same time, but appreciates the cake John brings him.

Seeing him shuffle about in his box, John fetches the headcollar again. “Come on, I’ll take you to the cattle pasture.”

Because of a throng of visitors blocking the rear exit of the stable, John is forced to take Sherlock out front and lead him across the busy courtyard, again drawing many an admiring glance. Some people seem to recognise Sherlock from the website, and they are forced to stop repeatedly to allow children to carefully pet him or to take photographs. _So much for lying low,_ thinks John wryly, wondering if it wouldn’t have been wiser to keep Sherlock away from the shelter for the day. Now it’s too late.

Finally, they manage to escape the crowds. Only a small group of people are standing near the fence of the cattle pasture under a colourful banner bearing the Sunny Meadows header and several children’s drawings of their animals. Gently steering Sherlock towards the entrance, John suddenly feels how the leading rope is pulled tight when Sherlock simply stops. He glances at him, and sees how he stands stiff and tense, his head raised high and his ears perked forward, his nostrils wide and flaring.

“What is it?” asks John softly.

Sherlock barely seems to register his words, and doesn’t acknowledge them. Following his line of sight, John notices that he is staring intently at two men standing a little to the side of the group who now wanders on, having taking photographs of the Manx Loghtan sheep with their unique horns. Indeed, the two visitors don’t fit the rest of the crowd. The smaller of the pair, who now turns to study Sherlock and John, wears an expensive looking grey suit, more modern and fashionable in design than Mycroft Holmes’ three-piece attire, but surely no less pricey. His black shoes are polished within an inch of their life, and his chest is adorned with a dark tie with a small white pattern John can’t quite make out over the distance. Could be simple dots, but also skulls. The man isn’t very old, younger than John, he reckons, and has dark, deep-set eyes like a lizard, and slicked back dark hair. All in all, he pretty much looks like a banker or stock broker, a city boy through and through, slick and cunning and dangerous.

His companion still stands with his back to John, and he can only see his face in profile. He is taller than the city boy, and of powerful, athletic build which is accentuated by his tight dark turtle-neck jumper and his brown, earth-coloured jeans. His light brown hair is short, and his face stoic and somewhat weather-beaten, as if he is used to spending most of his time outside. In combination with the other man, he rather looks like his bodyguard, although John cannot see any weapons on him.

He steals another glance at Sherlock who is still eyeing them intently. He is still tense, even more so than before. John, too, feels a prickle of suspicion. Undoubtedly, there is something strange about the duo. The city boy even looks faintly familiar. Not his clothing nor his face exactly, but John is almost certain he has seen his dark, reptilian eyes before. And the other ... he barely seems to be paying attention to John and his horse, but instead has turned back to gazing across the meadow at the sheep and cattle through his dark sunglasses. They’ve wandered off into the far reaches of the enclosure, but instead of grazing peacefully or lying down ruminating as is their wont, they are standing huddled together watching the men, as if afraid of them.

And, Sherlock, too, appears to be alternating between fear and excitement. He snorts, at which the taller man stirs to half-turn, take off his glasses and shoot him at quick glance out of the corner of his eye. John sees Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise, and following his line of sight, he suppresses a gasp. It might be a trick of the light, but the man’s irises appear to be of a deep golden colour very rarely if ever found in humans. And his pupils ...

John swallows and looks up to exchange a quick glance with Sherlock who gives an almost imperceptible nod, as if to indicate that he has seen them, too, and is thinking along the same lines as John. Because the pupils are narrow vertical slits, like a cat’s.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter:  
> 


	8. The journey into London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks a lot for your comments and kudos. This chapter ends with a bit of a cliffhanger, so if you prefer to wait until the next one is up ... ;)

_It could be contact lenses,_ John tells himself. Fancy ones, like he has seen people wear at the Notting Hill Carnival. But then the man doesn’t look like he’s in fancy dress. There is something very stark and serious about him. John can’t imagine him smile, unless it be a threatening, predatory smile. Predatory ... yes, that’s the right description. There is a tension in the man’s body, a constant alertness and awareness of his surroundings that John has encountered in large cats. Lions, tigers, leopards ... Then there’s the way the stranger has been watching the cattle ...

And what if he is a lion or a tiger? The thought doesn’t shock John as much as it ought to, he realises. He is standing next to a human turned horse. Who says the transformation doesn’t work the other way round as well? It does work, at least for those who were human to begin with, because Valerie Wickham managed to reverse the process somehow and turn herself back. It would be difficult to make the animal seem and behave in a human-like manner, but careful training might achieve at least a working semblance of that. And the possibilities to use – or abuse – these creatures seem limitless, as they are the other way round. People who can suddenly fly, or view the world from an insect’s perspective (unless it only works for mammals). And animals turned human to ... what? Pass them off as people? It would be convenient for smuggling endangered species into the country. Or perhaps it could help with mixing DNA. Regrow limbs like an axolotl or a lizard, cure diseases ...

John feels dizzy and finds himself leaning against Sherlock’s side to steady himself. Sherlock, too, appears to be thinking furiously, his eyes still riveted on the cat eyes man, as John calls him in his mind. John can feel the tension in his body, the slight tremor as if Sherlock is battling his equine instincts to turn round and flee from a potential predator, while at the same time his human mind is telling him to stay, and his super-human curiosity to even approach the stranger and investigate. John lets the leading rope slip from his hands, to virtually leave Sherlock a free rein to make his own decision.

The spell is broken by cat eyes’ companion. The slick-haired man in the grey suit removes his hands from the pockets of his trousers and claps them together in a gesture of delight. “Now if that isn’t a beautiful horse,” he exclaims, his voice strangely high-pitched and melodious, with a defined Irish lilt to it.

John narrows his eyes. The voice ... it is familiar. He takes another look at the man, tries to imagine him in different attire, with a beard and a different hairstyle. Sherlock snorts at his side. John feels him move, and looking down sees him draw a few branching lines onto the gravelly ground. He looks up at Sherlock and frowns, not recognising the picture, but then Sherlock adds what looks like a four-legged animal, and John understands. Antlers, stag, stag man ...

“The photographer?” he breathes, only for Sherlock to hear. His companion nods almost imperceptibly. “Shit, I knew this fellow here looked familiar. So there _was_ something fishy about him. What do we do?” Remembering that Sherlock can’t reply to the question, he draws a deep breath.

Sticking out his chin, he faces up to the grey-clad man as he approaches. He has a wide smile on his face which, however, doesn’t seem to reach his eyes, which remain cold and dark and inscrutable. Like a lizard’s, thinks John yet again. One of the poisonous varieties.

“I see my brother didn’t lie when he said he spotted a prime specimen of a Frisian in Richmond Park a few days ago.”

 _Brother?_ John frowns and more feels than sees Sherlock’s shake of head. Apparently he doesn’t believe the statement. The men must be one and the same, and now that he knows what to look for, John believes he can see the similarities between the two despite their different attire and bearing. Still, if the stranger wants to make them believe he himself wasn’t present at Richmond Park, John is happy to play along.

“Your brother, sir?” he asks innocently.

The other smiles effusively, stepping closer. John can see his tie clearly now. The white pattern consists of small stylised skulls indeed. Somehow, they fit the eery if fashionable impression the man makes.

“Yes. He showed me pictures he had taken at Richmond Park and talked at length about a rider and his Frisian he met there. He regretted having never asked you whether he was allowed to use the photos he had taken of you, and didn’t get your details. He is a wildlife photographer, you see. Jim Brook.”

John nods, playing innocent and slightly dumb. “Ah yes, I remember. I wasn’t aware he had taken photos of me and my horse. He seemed upset that we had chased away the deer he had been trying to photograph. Does he have a website or something? Or Instagram, Flickr? Somewhere I could contact him. I’d love to see the pictures.”

“Oh yes, sure,” replies the other. “Let me see if I’ve got his card.” He takes out a snake-leather wallet from the interior pocket of his suit jacket and rummages in it, at length producing a business card featuring the close-up shot of what looks like a bird’s eye on the front. On the back, John finds the contact details of Jim Brook, wildlife photographer, including website, email address and mobile number. He briefly holds it up for Sherlock to see, pretending to check the motif against the light, before pocketing it.

“Thank you. May I ask for your name?”

“Oh sure, sure. Richard Brook. Jim couldn’t come today because of a commission, but he told me about this place. I think he must have searched for you and spotted you on the shelter‘s website. You must be Dr. Watson, the resident veterinarian.”

“Well, yes,” answers John. “It’s nice of you to come in his stead.”

Brook smiles and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, my visit wasn’t altogether altruistically motivated. Brotherly affection only goes so far, either. I am a businessman, as surely you can see. I’ve been looking into possible venues to invest some of my finances.”

John feels tempted to exchange a wry glance with Sherlock at this but reins himself in. It would look askance if he were to be seen communicating with his horse. “I am certain the owners will be happy to receive donations, but this is hardly a business opportunity. They don’t sell shares, as far as I know, and the shelter is just that: a place that looks after old or injured animals. It’s not an enterprise aiming at making profit.”

Brook smiles again, and again it seems superficial. “Oh, I am aware of that, Dr. Watson. But donations, especially generous ones to registered charities, are tax deductible. Give aid and all that. Moreover, one must not underestimate the effect a well-meant donation and the proof of one having sponsored a good cause has on potential business partners. And after all, we must do our utmost to keep all these precious creatures here in good health and proper feed, mustn’t we?” he adds with a long, keen glance at Sherlock.

Stepping closer to him, he extends a hand. “May I?” he asks, but not John, but Sherlock directly, who pulls up his head briskly and snorts, edging away from Brook’s hand with his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring.

John steps between the two and grabs Sherlock’s rope again. “He’s quite shy and suspicious,” he says. “And he doesn’t like strangers. So better not touch him, or come too close. The masses of visitors here today have already stressed and upset him.”

Brook backs away with a hint of reluctance and a brief, fierce glint in his dark eyes. His companion has approached, too, and is standing right behind him like a wall made of flesh and blood. He hasn’t spoken a single word. John wonders if he even can speak. He is eyeing Sherlock out of his yellow, cat-like eyes with an expression of hunger. John feels his heartbeat accelerate. The man exudes danger like a scent. Sherlock seems to feel it, too, because he stands even taller. John hears his tail swish excitedly, and thinks he can hear the faintest of sounds in Sherlock’s throat, like a low, threatening growl.

Brook has raised his hands in a soothing gesture. “Of course, of course. He truly is magnificent, though. What an unusual jewel to find in a place like this. I hope he hasn’t been too badly injured.” He nods towards Sherlock’s right side that still bears traces of his recent injuries.

“He’s recovering well,” John informs him briskly. “If you’ll excuse me now, Mr. Brook. I need to bring him to the pasture. If you haven’t done so yet, you should discuss your business ideas with Clara Williams, the owner. I can introduce you, if you want. I’m sure she’ll very much appreciate a generous sponsor. You can also grab a bite at the café, if you want. Your companion looks rather hungry.”

Sherlock snorts at this, tugging at the rope to get John to move. Brook gives them another of his reptile smiles. “Oh, I am sure he is,” he says, his eyes flicking to his towering companion whose expression has barely changed at the statement.

“We’ll wait for you to deliver your charge, Dr. Watson,” he then says, and stepping back, he lets John lead Sherlock past him. Before they have completely passed him by, however, he leans forward and whispers something into Sherlock’s ear. It’s too quick and too soft for John to hear. He feels Sherlock tense again, however. The rope is almost pulled out of his hands when the horse’s head whips round as he tries to snap at Brook, who slinks back smoothly, raising an eyebrow in an almost challenging fashion. Sherlock glares at him, then shaking his mane, he walks on, almost dragging John behind him. John gives Brook and his companion a warning glance over his shoulder, before hurrying after Sherlock.

Once behind the fence, Sherlock briskly makes his way towards ‘his’ tree, scattering sheep and cattle in the process who came forward out of their corner again when the cat eyes man stepped away from the fence, although they still seem skittish and nervous. John rushes after his equine friend. When Sherlock reaches the tree, he begins to circle it agitatedly. John lets go of the rope and stands back, watching him with a frown of worry.

“Sherlock, are you okay? What did he say to you?”

Sherlock snorts frustratedly, as if now, more than ever, he resents the fact he can’t talk. John rummages in his pockets for his notebook and a pencil and holds them out to Sherlock, placing the open book on his flat hands like a make-shift table to help Sherlock write. After several minutes of awkward scribbling, John turns the book round and deciphers the following message:

_Cut lil pet u got there, Goldilocks. / want see him hurt, w u?_

He looks up at Sherlock who spits the pencil into his hands and scowls at him. He seems more angry than shaken or intimidated. “Goldilocks?” asks John. Sherlock snorts. John licks his lips as he tries to construct a coherent sentence out of Sherlock’s abbreviations.

“Cut ... Cute? Cute, okay, cute little pet you got there, Goldilocks,” he reads haltingly. Sherlock nods. “Not? Ah, wouldn’t want to see him hurt, would you? Cute little pet? Is he referring to me there? Fuck him. I’ll give him cute little pet, the slimy twat.”

Turning with a snort of anger, he scans the fence. There are still some visitors milling about, but Brook and his eery companion are nowhere to be seen. “Sherlock, will you be okay if I leave you here for a moment?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Want to come with me? Right, come on, then. I doubt the wanker has gone to see Clara about his ‘donation’,” he says as they set out, Sherlock trotting and John hobbling along next to him back towards the fence. “Bet they’re trying to get lost. Fuck, we should have been more careful. Do you know him? Have you met him before somewhere, apart from Richmond, I mean?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, but then shakes his head. He looks somewhat doubtful, however.

John unhooks the top wire of the electric fence that constitutes the gate and lets Sherlock jump over the rest, wincing when his own leg touch the life wires when he scrambles after him and he receives an electric charge. Sherlock circles back and waits for him, snorting impatiently when John closes the fence again. Visitors scatter in surprise and mild fright when Sherlock approaches, crowding John against the wooden part of the fence, nodding towards his back. John growls, his leg still itching from the electric charge, but he scrambles onto his friends back and leans forward to grab the dangling rope and a handful of his voluptuous mane.

“Come on, then,” he urges Sherlock on, who immediately spins round on his hindlegs and dashes off across the courtyard, to the surprised yells and whistles of the bystanders. John clings on to him as best he can until he manages to steady himself. Sherlock gallops down the drive, past the queue of cars with barely sparing them a glance. John gets the impression he is heading towards a particular destination, perhaps lead by his sense of smell, or perhaps he has spotted Brook and his friend ahead. For the moment, John is more concerned with staying on Sherlock’s back than heeding his surroundings.

At the end of the drive Sherlock veers left so sharply that John almost slides off. For a horrible moment, he feels Sherlock’s unshod hooves lose grip on the slippery tarmac. He already sees the two of them crash onto the road, but Sherlock manages to steady himself and dashes on.

But John has hardly pulled himself up again when Sherlock rears with a cry of surprise. From the right, a car pulls out of a side street at considerable speed, almost hitting them as it cuts across them. It’s a sleek dark model, low and fast-looking. John is too busy clinging on to Sherlock’s mane to register the make and model. The windows are tinted, it’s difficult to see inside, yet he is almost convinced that the car is Brook’s. Sherlock appears to think so, too, because after his initial shock, he increases his speed and chases after the car, even gaining on it on the straight but narrow road that is fringed to both sides by parking vehicles. Sherlock gallops to the right of Brook’s car, as if trying to overtake it. John feels his body stretch and his leaps becoming even wider, and hears his breathing fast and hard over the roar of the car’s engine and the quick patter of Sherlock’s hooves on the asphalt.

“Sherlock, be careful,” John manages to gasp as he ducks behind the stallion’s neck to minimise their resistance to the wind. Sherlock’s mane is whipping into his face and he has to avert his eyes to avoid them being flicked constantly by the coarse strands. Needless to point out, Sherlock doesn’t heed his warning. He is almost level with the front door of the car now. John assumes he wants to try and peek inside. He turns his head the other way to try and catch a glance, and thinks he can recognise Brook’s profile through the tinted glass. The man turns his head and gazes at them. To John it seems he is smiling thinly, dangerously. Then he accelerates yet again. Sherlock, too, attempts yet another burst of speed, yet in mid-leap, suddenly he pulls up his head sharply and lets out a squeal as if in warning. John raises his head and his eyes widen in shock. A car is approaching in their lane, while at the same time Brook to their left seems to have slowed down. The car is sounding its horn in warning. There is a horrible moment during which John is sure they are going to collide with it because Brook doesn’t let them sheer into the lane behind him, and there are cars parking along both sides of the street in an almost unbroken line.

“Sherlock,” cries John. Reflexively, he grabs the mane harder, preparing himself for an abrupt stop. It doesn’t come. To the squeal of brakes a clatter of hooves is added as Sherlock veers left and leaps over the rear of Brook’s car which speeds on. He lands unevenly on the pavement in a narrow gap between two parked cars, skitters forward, takes another small leap over a low fence and a privet hedge and crashes into a small lawn inhabited by plastic garden gnomes. This second impact is too much for John who topples off his back and rolls over the lawn until he hits one of the gnomes’ little wheelbarrow and comes to a halt in a disorganised heap.

For a moment, he just lies there on his back, the smell of moist grass pungent in his nostrils. He is breathing hard, his heart is pounding like he has run a marathon. His body still appears to be in shock. For the moment, nothing hurts, which he takes for a good sign, despite knowing that likely, pain will set in very quickly once he’s gathered his wits together. Opening his eyes, he looks up into the smiling, somewhat faded and washed-out face of the gnome. He groans, and begins to take stock of his limbs. All appear to be in working order. Nothing broken or otherwise damaged beyond a few scrapes and bruises. His head is throbbing dully, though. _Should have worn the damn helmet,_ he thinks, then closes his eyes again because the evening sun is stinging right into them. Moreover, the fucking gnome looks scary from this perspective.

Dimly, he registers voices. Then he feels something wet on his face. He squints against the light and finds his vision blocked by something dark and large and smelly, which is breathing over his face, fast and shallow. “Sherlock,” he mutters, reaching up to brush at the soft muzzle. “You okay?”

Sherlock snorts several times, sounding desperate. John swats his nose away and pulls himself up into a sitting position, at which his head protests with another throb. He groans. Sherlock is standing over him, still breathing hard and fast. His eyes are wide. For lack of a better description, to John he looks almost out of his mind with worry. He touches his muzzle again, rubbing it soothingly.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock, I’m okay. Nothing broken, just a little shaken. Just give me a moment to sort myself out, okay? What about you? Did you hurt yourself? Did you hit one of the cars or the fence?”

Sherlock shakes his head, still wide-eyed with fear and worry, and panting from his dash and leap. there are twigs of privet stuck in his mane and tail. John continues to stroke him soothingly as around them, people gather: the owners of the gnome-infested yard, and the driver of the approaching car, whom John recognises as one of the regulars at the shelter, Alicia’s mum, likely on her way to fetch her daughter.

Together, they help him up. The owners of the house are an elderly couple who seem far more concerned about Sherlock and him than what minor damage has been done to their yard (the hedge has suffered a few broken branches, and there are some grooves in the lawn from where Sherlock braked with all four legs. One of the gnomes has been kicked against the wall and has lost its head. John is persuaded to partake of a cuppa and some biscuits. He tells the concerned people that the horse took fright and dashed off, which is partly true although Sherlock doesn’t seem to approve, judging from his snorting. He is, however, soon mollified when John offers him some of the biscuits.

As soon as he feels his own legs can bear him again, John checks him for injuries, but finds nothing apart from a few shallow cuts to his forelegs, and a swelling of his joints from the strain of running so fast on hard tarmac. Alicia’s mother, Mrs. Cooper, offers to give John a lift back to the shelter, but he tells her he prefers to walk and lead Sherlock, to check his gait for lameness. He doesn’t tell her that he also needs a private moment with him to discuss what just happened.

After about half an hour, they take leave of the elderly couple who assure him that he won’t have to pay for the damage. The woman seems rather delighted about the destruction of the gnome. John assumes that she wouldn’t have minded had more garden ornaments suffered a similar fate. They even offer to visit the next day to check on Sherlock after learning that he lives at the shelter. “We’ve always wanted to take the grandchildren,” says the woman. “Does he like carrots?”

“Yes,” replies John, “but I think he prefers your biscuits. Thank you. If you need help with repairing the lawn, please let me know.”

“Oh, don’t worry, son,” the man assures him. “Gives me something to do for the next couple of days. You look after yourself now, and your horse friend.”

With a clap of John’s shoulder and Sherlock’s neck, he watches the duo leave.

 

**- <o>-**

 

“Fuck, what was that?” asks John under his breath as slowly, they walk along the pavement. “There’s something really fishy about this Brook. Scary, even. He was actively trying to make you crash into the car. And he was threatening us. Are you sure you never met him before?”

Sherlock hesitates, then slowly shakes his head. He seems even less convinced than before, however. John runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, in all this excitement, I didn’t manage to catch the registration number of the car. Did you, by any chance?”

Sherlock nods, and John lets out a breath of relief. “Well, guess it’s fake, anyway, but we should let Lestrade check it, and moreover try and find out whatever he can about Brook and his ‘brother’. I’m still convinced it was one and the same bloke, he and the photographer. So do you, right?”

Sherlock confirms this. John nods grimly. “And that companion of his ... uncanny doesn’t even begin to describe him. He seemed to almost alarm you, you and the other animals. And that can’t have been his eyes alone. Do you think what I think? That he’s an animal turned human?”

Sherlock looks ahead. His walk has slowed. He seems both exhausted and yet strangely energetic, as if his mind is working at overdrive. He nods. Halting briefly, he glances about, his ears pricked, his nostrils wide. John tries to follow his gaze until he spots a grey, tiger-striped cat sitting on a gatepost, watching them. Sherlock eyes her for a moment, then makes a pointing gesture with his head.

“You think he’s a cat? Not this one, though?” Sherlock snickers, then lets out a long breath, almost like a growl.

“Oh, I get it. You think he’s a tiger? Yeah, that would make sense. I wonder how it works, though. I mean, turning humans into animals is one thing. You seem to retain your human conscious and mental capabilities. But if that’s the same with animals turned human, he would be rather ... dumb, wouldn’t he? I mean, dumber than your average human, at least, perhaps not to your standards, though. And he wouldn’t be capable of speech, or driving a car, or any of these things. Use cutlery. And he’d still be driven by his instincts, far more than by rational thought. It’s scary, that image. But then again, recalling the way he watched those poor sheep ... He seemed ready to leap over the fence and chase them. Shit, Sherlock, this Brook, I think he truly is dangerous. And if he’s got a tiger for a companion, he must have found a way to lay his hands on the serum, might have even modified it, or have people to do it for him. He certainly didn’t seem to lack funds. I think we need to call your brother again tonight, even before we speak to Lestrade. This is getting damn scary.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

By the time they arrive at Sunny Meadows, John is beginning to feel the evidence of his tumble. There is hardly a part of his body that doesn’t hurt, although the pain isn’t unbearable. Judging by his slow, weary gait, Sherlock isn’t entirely well, either. Therefore, John insists of looking after him first, before Clara and his sister who’ve already been informed about the accident by Mrs. Cooper can take him aside to question him about what happened. Before they enter the stable which is thankfully devoid of visitors by now, Sherlock stops and raises his head, sniffing the air intently and looking about searchingly.

“Everything all right?” asks John in a low voice.

Sherlock doesn’t react for a moment, but then he steps inside. John gives the courtyard and the few remaining visitors and regulars a curious glance before following his friend. In the stable, Sherlock isn’t very communicative, lost in his mind, apparently. John rubs him down, washes his legs with cool water and looks after his hooves which thankfully appear to not have taken damage on the tarmac, before providing Sherlock with water and fodder.

Clara and Harry come over while he is filling one of the buckets with oats, and he tells them briefly about Brook and the car chase. He doesn’t mention his creepy companion, but enquires whether Brook spoke with any of them. Clara shakes her head.

“I remember seeing him walk about,” she says thoughtfully. “Struck me as odd, that one, because he so very clearly didn’t belong here. I mean, Tequila’s owners are pretty posh, and so are some of the folks visiting from Richmond or the City, but he ... he looked out of place. Thought he was one of those city boys looking for an investment opportunity.”

“Yeah, that’s what he told u— me as well. But there was something fishy about him. I think he recognised Sherlock from somewhere.”

Harriet frowns at this. “You don’t think he intends to break in here and steal him, do you? I mean, I bet he’s worth a good deal, considering the fuss his owner is making over him.”

 _You’ve no idea, sister dear,_ thinks John wryly. Sherlock snorts at this, and John cuffs his nose gently to shut him up.

“Will you two be all right?” Clara wants to know.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine. I don’t think Sherlock hurt himself, and apart from a few bumps and bruises, I’m okay, too. I’m going to let Sherlock’s owner know what happened, however. Perhaps he wants to come over to check on him himself.”

“Meaning you’ll be staying around for a bit?”

“Yeah, a bit. I wonder if I could trouble you for some dinner.”

Clara smiles at this. “Always. There are leftovers from the café, and we’ll need all the help we can muster to get rid of them. I’ll bring you something.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Sherlock can’t seem to manage to calm down. While John gets out his mobile to text both Mycroft and Lestrade because he can’t reach any of them via phone, Sherlock keeps wandering to and fro in his stall, snickering and snorting to himself. At certain intervals he stops as if to listen, and to smell the air, before resuming his restless pacing.

Eventually, John steps up to him and grabbing his headcollar, holds on to him. “Sherlock, calm down. Drink something, please. You must be parched after the run and all the excitement. And eat something, too. Oh, and if you can, write down the registration number of Brook’s car so I can pass it on to Mycroft and Lestrade.

Sherlock neighs and complies immediately, scratching squiggly lines into the straw-strewn floor with his forehoof which John can barely make out.

“MA66PIE?” he reads with a frown. “Is that what it said?”

Sherlock nods. With a shrug, John types the letters and numbers into his phone. Rereading his text before sending it, he suddenly smiles. “Magpie,” he mutters. “It fits, don’t you think? Brook certainly gave the impression of a thieving character, although he looks more like a reptile than a bird.”

He sends the text, and almost immediately his phone rings with a text alert. It’s from Clara, who informs him that dinner is served in the kitchen. Imploring Sherlock yet again to eat something, he leaves him to his own devices, despite Sherlock’s mild protest. “I’ll be back in no time, as soon as either Lestrade or your brother reply. Now, have your dinner. I’ll see if there’s any cake left for dessert.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Dinner takes longer than John anticipates, chiefly because he’s really hungry and eats a lot, and also because Hal and the others still present urge him to recount what happened out on the street. Mrs. Cooper is still fuming, cursing Brook and his attitude. “I couldn’t have braked any sooner,” she says, “and I’d almost run you over. I do hope you’ve got his number, Dr. Watson, and that you’re going to charge him with reckless driving.”

John assures her that the police have already been informed and are hopefully looking for the car. After packing some carrot cake for Sherlock and himself, he makes his excuses, glad about being out at the fresh air again. His headache has worsened, and he feels exhausted after the long, eventful day. Dusk is falling. In one of the large trees behind the horse stable, an owl is hooting. The air is fresh with a surprisingly strong breeze blowing. The night is going to be cool and clear.

Drawing his jacket a little more tightly about him, John crosses the courtyard quickly. He has almost reached the stable when suddenly, he feels compelled to halt. Something is tingling in his subconscious. He looks over his shoulder, but there is nobody in the yard. Dimly, voices can be heard from the main house. The few cars still parked in front of it are empty, too. Nevertheless, John has the distinct impression that he is being watched. It’s an instinct he has honed in the wilderness, and which more than once has alerted him either to wild and potentially dangerous animals, or to even more dangerous poachers.

Standing still and listening for any uncanny sounds, he can only hear the rustle of the young leaves of the trees, the murmur of voices, and the sound of a car passing on the street at the end of the drive. Suddenly, there is a swoosh. John jumps in surprise and even ducks slightly, until he realises that the shadow passing over him is the owl.

He gives the courtyard and the darkening buildings another swooping glance. The feeling of being watched is still there, but less pronounced now. It must have been the owl, then, who now perches on a gable. Letting out a long breath, John enters the stable.

After the masses of visitors the animals had to endure today, John has expected them to be tired. Therefore, he is surprised to find all the horses milling about in their stalls with a strange kind of restlessness, snorting and tossing their heads. They’re frisky, agitated. Perhaps, he reasons, the adrenaline is still coursing in their systems. Even good-natured, calm and peaceful Jude shies away from the door of his stall when John approaches, withdrawing to the depths of his box as if afraid.

John increases his speed, suddenly eager to reach Sherlock. He, too, seems tense and agitated, whinnying lowly when he sees John approach. Casting a last questioning glance down the corridor, John opens the door and steps inside. Immediately, Sherlock crowds into him, snorting into his face. John swats at his nose.

“Hey, hey, easy there. You’ll get your cake all right. Sorry it took so long.” He begins unpacking the treat. Sherlock, however, doesn’t pay it any attention, just shakes his mane irritatedly and pushes John to the side of the stall to gaze out the door.

John frowns. “You all right? You didn’t hurt yourself after all during the chase, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head again. He withdraws into the box and begins to pace agitatedly. John watches him for a moment before stepping to him and laying a hand to his neck. “Hey, calm down. What’s going on here? The other horses are out of sorts, too, even Jude. Did you spot anything out of the ordinary?”

Sherlock shakes his head and makes a sound of frustration.

“Smell?” remembers John. “Did you smell anything? There were so many strangers here today. I’m not sure anybody would want to harm any of the animals, but you never know. And the Brook fellow ...”

At the mention of the name, Sherlock’s head jerks up sharply. John feels a shiver run through him. “It’s to do with Brook, you think? I haven’t had word from either Lestrade nor your brother, which in the case of the latter is a little strange. Sherlock, do you want me to search the stable? Want to do it yourself?”

Sherlock seems undecided for a brief moment, then nods. John deposits the cake next to Sherlock’s water bucket and slides open the door far enough for Sherlock to pass through. Belatedly, he notices that his friend isn’t wearing his headcollar, but Sherlock has already wandered off and is gazing into the various stalls, to the apparently surprise and additional irritation of the other horses. He sniffs the air experimentally, making low, grumbling noises to himself. John hurries to catch up with him.

He has just reached him when suddenly Sherlock freezes and his head shoots up. Turning, John follows his line of sight, and catches a shadow moving out of the tack room at the end of the corridor and towards the rear exit. John only manages to see a glimpse of it. It’s large, at tall as a human or larger. Sherlock utters a low snort and leaps after it.

“Sherlock,” John calls warningly, but the stallion doesn’t heed him. Cursing under his breath, he deliberates for a second, then spins round to run towards the front entrance. Dimly, he can hear Sherlock’s hoofbeat behind the stable. With a sting in his side, John rounds the corner. The courtyard is cast in twilight apart from the bright headlights from a car parked near the end of the drive. A figure is running down the gravelly track, a man. John can only see his silhouette against the glaring slights. Sherlock is right behind him, but the man is fast. John tries to cut across him, yet misses him.

The fleeing person reaches the car before Sherlock is on to him, jumps into the front passenger seat through the door the driver has kept open. The door bangs shut. With a roar of the engine, the car speeds backwards down the rest of the drive, reverses on the road and shoots away.

“Sherlock!” John calls after him because the horse hasn’t slowed down. “Not again. You can’t catch them!”

Behind him, John hears a door open. “John, what’s the matter?” he hears Clara’s worried call.

“Clara, check the horse stable, and call the police. Someone was in there and scared all the horses,” John calls over his shoulder, already running again to catch up with Sherlock. “Don’t know if they did anything to the food, or lit a fire, or placed a bomb. They were in the tack room. I’ll look after Sherlock. The idiot has run off again.”

“John?” Clara’s voice is worried, but John is confident she’s going to do the right thing. On a whim, he adds, already out of breath, “Call Sherlock’s owner. Tell him there was an intruder here. He’ll know what to do. I’ll be in touch. Please, take this seriously. I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he increases his speed, rushing down the dark driveway as fast as he can, only to almost collide with Sherlock on the pavement, where he is standing tall and tense, looking after the car, his nostrils flaring and his tail swishing agitatedly.

“Shit, Sherlock, what was that?” gasps John when he reaches him. “Was it the Magpie car? Brook? His uncanny companion?”

Sherlock snorts, motioning for John to mount. “What, was it them?”

Sherlock nods, but seems uncertain. “You’re not sure,” sums up John as he climbs onto his back. Due to the blindingly bright headlights, he didn’t manage to see the registration plate. Apparently Sherlock fared similarly. Sherlock nods, but then paws at the ground. He bows his head and sniffs at something. John leans down to gaze over his shoulder, but can’t make out anything particular on the pavement.

“Sherlock?” he asks when slowly, the horse sets into motion, moving onto the road, still with his head bowed and his nostrils seemingly picking up some kind of scent. “What at you smelling?” John wants to know.

Sherlock snickers softly, pointing at the ground with his muzzle. They are closer to a streetlamp now, and in the orange glow John can see a line of small, darkish, wet stains on the tarmac. He frowns.

“Motor oil?” he enquires. “You mean the car is leaking oil?” Sherlock nods.

John sits up straighter again. “You want to try and track it? Sherlock, that could take ages, and we’re likely to lose them in traffic. Also, what are we going to do should we catch them?”

Sherlock only shakes his mane and whinnies softly, looking back at John who returns his excited, almost challenging gaze with a roll of his eyes. He heaves a sigh, adjusts his seat and loops a few strands of Sherlock’s mane round his right hand to hold on tight for lack of reins.

“All right then,” he relents. “Lead the way. But carefully. I don’t fancy another fall today, yeah?”

Sherlock snorts happily and sets off down the street at a light trot. John holds on as best he can as they hobble along. _I must be out of my bloody mind,_ he chides himself, while at the same time feeling the thrill of the chase. _The hunt is on,_ he thinks, and cannot help smiling to himself.

 

**- <o>-**

 

For some reason, the strange, leaking car seems to have avoided the main roads and has kept to small streets in residential areas, criss-crossing its way through Putney and towards the railway station. There, Sherlock briefly seems to lose track, needs several attempts to recover the line of oil droplets, and when he does, the trace leads down busy Richmond Road towards Wandsworth.

“We are not following that,” insists John. Sherlock makes an exasperated sound, as if to remind John that it’s him who does the walking, but in the end relents and moves to the pavement to follow the oil trail eastward. Pedestrians laden with plastic bags smelling of takeaway give them awkward glances, but nobody seems to consider John and his dark steed threatening as Sherlock trots along the pavement.

When Richmond Road is joined by the A3 in Wandsworth, Sherlock halts again, looking about him with his ears pricked and his nostrils wide. “Lost them?” John wants to know. Sherlock seems uncertain and doesn’t reply right away. Once again, John thinks he can feel the faint prickle of impending danger. In retrospect, he knows he should have trusted his instinct back at the shelter. There was something strange going on, after all, and it wasn’t the owl. He hopes Clara and the others are all right. He checks his mobile for any messages, but there are none.

Leaning forward, he places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Anything the matter?” he enquires. Sherlock snickers, but doesn’t give a definite answer. He seems, however, have to made up his mind concerning their destination. Steering away from the busy road, he seeks out the nearest cycle track and begins to follow it eastward.

“Sherlock, where are we going?” John wants to know, although he thinks he can guess at least the broad direction they are heading in. “What happened to following that car?”

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head, then lifts it to nod towards a signpost.

“Battersea, Chelsea, Westminster,” reads John. “You want to go into London?”

Sherlock nods and increases his pace. A strange sense of urgency seems to have taken hold of him. John suspects that Sherlock’s hatched the plan to return to London for a while now, but something seems to have triggered this acute desire. John wonders if he remembers something from before or during his transformation and wants to investigate. He decides to trust his judgement. After all, it’s not that he could truly discourage Sherlock from going where he wants to, not without tranquiliser darts or more people to hold him back. And he doesn’t want to tranquilise Sherlock because deep down, he’s both curious and excited about the strange case they are involved in. He’s excited about Sherlock, that most of all.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Following winding cycle tracks and pedestrian passages, they make their way towards the banks of the river while around them, Greater London becomes more recognisably city-like with taller buildings and an increase in traffic despite the late hour. Whenever they have to cross a road and have to halt at traffic lights or a pedestrian crossing, Sherlock looks around intently. Sometimes, his eyes seem to linger on a car or lorry. Now and again he sniffs the air or studies the ground, perhaps to try and find the oil trace again, although John doubts that even a bloodhound could recover it now. Perhaps, he decides, Sherlock simply needs certain smells or landmarks to navigate by, then shakes his head at himself. If Sherlock needs orientation, he can simply read the roadsigns.

John doesn’t know how much time has passed when they reach Battersea. One hour? No, more. Two, three? He glances at his watch. It’s quarter to ten, more than an hour after sunset. Sherlock’s pace has slowed, his gait is less smooth and elegant but decidedly tired now. His head is drooping. John worries about his unshod hooves. As they approach Battersea Bridge, John tugs at his mane.

“Hey, Sherlock, how about a break? I could do with a drink, and knowing you, I bet you haven’t eaten much today. There seems to be a larger road ahead. Let’s have a look if there are any shops there that’re still open, okay?”

Sherlock seems undecided for a moment, but then agrees. They end up on busy Battersea Bridge Road. John spots a Cooperative supermarket on the other side. Not far from it on their side of the road is a small green space with grass and trees and a few benches. John urges Sherlock to move in that direction. Once under the trees, he slides off Sherlock’s back with a groan. His feet cramp slightly when they hit the ground. He takes a few careful steps, then turns to Sherlock who’s been rummaging around behind a bench and unearthed what looks like a newspaper.

“Stay here, okay,” John tells him. “And try not to make a fuss. Your coat is dark, so hide under the trees. I don’t want a passer by to call the police because they’ve seen a strange ownerless horse mill about in this area. I’ll be back in a moment.”

With that, he hurries across the road. There’s a queue of last minute stragglers in the supermarket. John buys a bottle of coke and a sandwich for himself and some water, a bag of apples and a packet of wholegrain toast for Sherlock.

On his way back across the road, he almost collides with a taxi that seems to come out of nowhere and certainly didn’t heed the traffic lights further down the road. Cursing at it and flipping the driver the fingers, John returns to the greensward. To his shock, it looks deserted but for Sherlock’s newspaper spread out on the bench, its edge flapping gently in the breeze.

John curses again. _Where has the idiot vanished to now?_ “Sherlock,” he calls softly. “Sherlock, where are you?”

He turns at a rustle from within the bushes that make the rear of the small park, bordering it towards the housing estate behind it. The light from the streetlamps doesn’t quite reach there. John withdraws his phone, noticing that there are several new text messages. Ignoring those for the moment, he switches on the torch and lets the bright beam shine between the bushes. To his surprise, they extend further than he thought at first. Behind them, he can just make out a brick wall. Against the wall, mostly hidden by the evergreen foliage of laurel, holly, boxwood and privet, there are makeshift tent-like structures. Three people have issued from them and are now blinking in the light. Two more are standing to the right next to one of the trees. Sherlock is with them. They are staring at him in wonder, while Sherlock is eyeing them keenly.

John assumes that they are either homeless, or some of the refugees that have been flocking to the country (despite the government discouraging or actively trying to hinder them). They don’t look hostile, rather surprised. Sherlock snorts at John’s arrival and walks over to him.

“Your horse?” asks one of the men, pointing at John. He speaks with a thick accent John can’t quite place. Eastern European, he thinks. He nods, stepping closer to Sherlock. The man smiles appreciatively. “Good horse.” He points at himself. “Me have horse back home. Gone now.”

He sounds first proud, then sad. John takes another look at their living arrangements, stricken suddenly at how much they must have risked, and how much they left behind to come here looking for a better future. “Er, yes, he belongs to me,” he says a little awkwardly. Sherlock has begun to nose at the plastic bag in his hands. John looks down and meets Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock nods towards the men. John frowns. “Want me to give the bag to them?” he asks under his breath. Sherlock nods.

John cocks an eyebrow at this. He hasn’t pegged Sherlock as the charitable kind, but believing that his friend may have his reasons, he holds out the bag to the man who first addressed him. “Er …”

The men exchange glances, then the speaker steps forward and takes the bag. “Thank you,” he says, looking as awkward as John feels. Sherlock nods his head and snorts, effectively breaking the ice.

“Horse want us take bag?” asks the man, exchanging an amused glance with his companions. John thinks that all of them could do with a square meal, and regrets not buying more. By now, however, the supermarket will be closed.

John shrugs. “Apparently so. He’s very … intelligent.”

The men once more exchange glances, and one begins to rapidly talk to the main speaker in their own language, gesticulating wildly. Sherlock’s ears prick up at this. John wonders whether he can understand part of what is being said, given his knowledge of several languages.

When his companion is finished, the main speaker takes a step towards Sherlock, looking at him gravely. He bites his lip, then points at Sherlock. “You … man?” he asks tentatively. John stares at Sherlock in shock, and Sherlock, too, appears surprised. He shoots a quick glance at John, before slowly and deliberately, he nods.

The speaker looks at his excited companion, who has started to talk again, pointing north across the river. He seems terrified by something. The man speaker listens, nods, then scrunches up his face while apparently trying to find words to translate his landsman’s words.

“Costin say,” he at length begins haltingly, pointing at his friend, while next to John, Sherlock appears to be trembling with barely suppressed excitement. John wonders what he managed to understand from the account. Whatever it was, it must have fascinated him. He is also more than surprised that the men appear to be taking the earth-shattering revelation that Sherlock is a man transformed into a horse in complete stride. As if it’s completely normal that in London, people get turned into animals. Perhaps, thinks John, recalling Potter and Wickham, Sherlock is indeed not the first case they’ve encountered. He wonders what else they might have seen, traveling the city and sleeping rough wherever there’s an opportunity. He is about to enquire, when the translator continues.

“Costin say,” repeats the man, “he see man … _grădină zoologică_ … zoo.” He gestures towards the north. “Near zoo, yes? Man … and … _tigru_.”

“ _Tigru?_ You mean tiger?” asks John, his heart beating hard and fast. “He saw a man with a tiger near the zoo? What, you mean outside the zoo? In the park, perhaps?”

Both men – John thinks they’re Romanian – nod. The man who brought up the story says something to his companion, who translates. “Man steal tiger. Put in car. In cage. Back of car. Large car … lorry? Give tiger …,” he makes a stabbing motion, “ _medicină?_ Tiger …,” he makes an exploding gesture with both hands. “Tiger … man. Person.”

John swallows hard. “You mean … you, er, Costin, you saw a tiger getting turned into a man?”

The main speaker translates and Costin nods, still looking terrified.

John exchanges a glance with Sherlock who seems barely able to contain his excitement. “Do you remember when this happened?” John wants to know.

Costin listens to the translation, thinks for a moment, then holds up his hands and shows ten, another ten, and another. “A month?” asks John, which is confirmed. Something tingles in the back of his mind. He thinks for a moment, trying to remember, and then it hits him. “Oh my God,” he whispers, “I recall hearing about it on the news. A tiger vanished from London Zoo, and there was a bit of a panic up in Regent’s Park and Camden because it was nowhere to be found. Not long after the hubbub died down again because word went out that the tiger had been found and had to be put down. There was some outcry from animals protection organisations. So you mean … you mean the tiger wasn’t killed but stolen and then turned into a human? Oh shit.”

He recalls the yellow, cat-like eyes of Richard Brook’s uncanny companion and his predatory smile. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock snickers in agreement.

“Listen,” John addresses the Romanians, “does either of you have a mobile phone?” He holds up his own. The leader, Costin and two others nod. “Okay. This is very important, and we may need your help. If you remember anything else about the tiger man, could you send me a message?” The English speaker translates for the rest. Costin switches on his mobile and begins to scroll through his photographs, before holding the phone out to John and Sherlock.

The video, filmed through what looks like evergreen branches is slightly blurry and very grainy, but John can make out a man dressed in a dark coat standing next to the open rear of a small delivery truck. Two more shadowy figures are nearby, holding what looks like rifles. There appears to be some kind of cage in the back, and on the floor of it, a naked figure is lying there in a crumpled heap. The figure stirs and lashes out at the man who withdraws a little, only to return with what looks like a blanket. Cautiously, he opens the cage, then leans forward and wraps the blanket round the figure, brushing at something on the body. The video shakes, there are rustling noises, and the man gazes towards the branches. John cannot see his face clearly, but he believes he recognises the dark, deep-set eyes and the slicked back hair of Richard Brook.

The video ends when apparently Costin moves deeper into hiding, or runs away. “Wow,” breathes John. “Thank you. We are trying to find this man.” He points at the screen.

“Bad man?” says the translator. John nods. “Yeah, pretty bad.”

“He turn your friend horse?”

John shrugs, gazing up at Sherlock. “We don’t quite know yet. What’s your name?”

“Marku,” says the translator, and continues to give the name of the rest of his group. John introduces himself and Sherlock, and proceeds to give Marku his mobile number. “Perhaps you don’t want to talk to the police,” he then says. The Romanians look uncomfortable at the mention. “But this is really important. So if you could send me the video, and anything else you remember seeing or hearing about the tiger man, please do so. I …,” he digs in his pockets for his wallet, finding he has about ninety pounds on him, which he empties into his hand and holds it out to Marku.

“I don’t have anything else on me, but take that.”

The men look reluctant to take it. Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. Marku looks up at him, and smiles, gently taking the money. “We send message,” he promises. Then remembering the bag with the food, he gives John a questioning glance. “You hungry?”

John shakes his head. “It’s okay. You keep that. Oi, Sherlock, where are you going?”

Sherlock has begun to wander off in the direction of the road. John lets out an exasperated breath and makes to follow him. “Sorry, he gets like this. We’ll stay in contact, yeah?”

The men wave, watching the odd pair as John dashes after Sherlock who has accelerated to a trot and has almost reached the road. “Sherlock, what the hell? Wait for me.”

Sherlock stops indeed. When John reaches him, he is gazing intently at a taxi that is driving off at considerable speed. John follows his gaze, frowning. “Anything wrong with that cab?” he asks.

Sherlock nods. “What do you mean? You think it was following us? Waiting for us?” Another nod.

John draws in a long breath. “How can you be sure? Have you seen it before? Recognised the number?” Sherlock looks uncertain for a moment, then nods again.

“Shit,” comments John, whistling softly. “I was almost run over by a cab when I crossed the road. Didn’t pay any particular attention to it, though. It was a simple black one, without any ads or specific colours on it. Yours, too?” Sherlock nods yet again.

John thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, there’s nothing for it now. Guess we’ll just have to keep our eyes open. Where do we go now? It’s getting late. Do you have a particular destination in mind?”

Sherlock confirms this. Moving over to one of the benches, he indicates to John that he should mount again. Stiffly, John scrambles onto his back. He is just about to check his mobile because he’s heard a text alert and remembers the unread messages he received previously, when Sherlock sets out at a brisk trot. Almost sliding off his back again from the jolting motion, John decides that he’d better use both hands to hold onto Sherlock’s mane.

Trotting along the pavement, Sherlock heads northwards. Soon, John sees that they are approaching Battersea Bridge. A cold breeze blows towards them from the river, carrying a smell of mud and decaying plant matter, as well as the strange odour that John believes he can pick out anywhere because it’s peculiar to the Thames.

Traffic has died down a little. They have almost reached the bridge when Sherlock slows down. His ears prick up and he turns his head, his eyes focusing on something behind them. John turns, but does not notices anything out of the ordinary. Ah no, wait, there is another taxi. Nothing strange about it, he thinks at first, but then he gets the impression that the car is slowing down, and what’s more, it’s drawing closer to the kerb, almost as if it’s trying to stop halfway on the pavement.

A sudden thrill takes hold of John. The cab’s light isn’t on. It’s not occupied, however, and there are no pedestrians anywhere close-by as potential passengers. The taxi seems to be making for them, now half driving on the pavement. A shiver passes through Sherlock. He snorts, tenses, and sprints away. John almost slides off his back. Digging his hands into the mane, he clings to Sherlock as best he can when the Frisian gallops onto the bridge. Behind them, the engine of the cab whines as the car accelerates, swerving onto the road again and picking up speed.

Slightly behind it, John realises with both a shock and a thrill, the Nr. 19 bus is approaching, blocking out a possible route of escape to the right. The taxi speeds past them, brakes only marginally, and swerves onto the pavement right in front of them. It’s rear lights glow devillishly red as the driver hits the brakes hard.

Sherlock, too, attempts to decrease speed, his hooves sliding on the smooth asphalt. They’re not going to make it, John realises in the fraction of the second that he sees the car stopping right in front of them, and Sherlock attempting to prevent a crash. They’re going to hit it full on. Unless …

Sherlock lets out a whinny that almost sounds like a cry and jumps. He brushes across the rear of the car, stumbles onto the road right in front of the bus, somehow gets his legs sorted out when John already sees them vanish under the wheels of Nr. 19. Sherlock takes another mighty leap that propels them out of the way of the bus onto the opposite lane which miraculously, thankfully, is free of traffic in this moment, but with two cars approaching, the foremost of them honking angrily. Sherlock flies across the lane onto the right hand pavement, almost stumbling over the kerb. He tries to steady himself, slow down so as not to crash into the ornate bannister. He succeeds at the former but fails at the latter.

 _Oh shit,_ thinks John when he feels Sherlock choose the only alternative to hitting the massive wrought iron bannister full on. He lets out a terrified cry when Sherlock takes one last, mighty, desperate leap that carries both of them over the railing and down, down into the dark, gurgling waters of the Thames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	9. Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for your feedback, kudos, comments ... They're all greatly appreciated.

In retrospect, John marvels that he manages to both disentangle himself from Sherlock to not fall directly on top of him, and to draw a deep breath and shut his eyes firmly before they hit the water with an almighty splash. Then things get dark and blurry, cold and wet as they are sucked down, down into the murky, icy depths of the fast current. A small part of John’s brain that isn’t yet gasping for oxygen or worrying about where the fuck up is and the blessed surface of the river, that small part is thankful that the Thames is deep under the bridge and that they didn’t simply go down all the way and hit the bottom. Not that hitting the water’s surface felt any softer. The impact drives both their bodies far below the surface, and then a strong undercurrent grabs them and John loses all sense of direction. He opens his eyes, but the water is dark and murky and he can’t see anything. He tries not to panic, reaching out in the hope of finding Sherlock, but there is only water in front of him, and to his sides, and above and below and behind him. His lungs begin to sting, and his head to pound as he gets swirled about and washed what he thinks is downriver, although one never really knows with the Thames, it being tidal and everything.

His clothes and shoes, soaked full of water, feel heavy as lead, dragging him what he thinks is down. He lets out some air, hoping to see in which direction the bubbles are floating, but he can’t make out a thing in the murky darkness.

 _This is it, then,_ he thinks. _This is how I’m going to end. Drowned in the bloody Thames. It would be so easy. Just breathe in a lungful of cold, polluted water and be done. And Sherlock ... Sherlock._

New resolve grips John. He has to find Sherlock. He can’t drown. He’s brilliant and unique and John needs to save him. He feels something coarse brush over his hand, and instinctively, he grabs it. It feels like hair. Or a tail, or Sherlock’s mane.

There is a mighty surge, and John feels himself being pulled along out of the undercurrent. He dares to open his eyes again and sees faint light ahead. _Perhaps that’s the other side already,_ he thinks weakly. Isn’t this what people who have had near-death experiences always claim? That they have seen a strange bright light?

By now, dizziness has set in. His lungs are burning, as are his muscles. His head feels like someone is pounding on it with a large hammer. But no, there is a light, orange and dim, but getting stronger. John can see bubbles of air float around him, upwards. It must be up. And next to him, he becomes aware of a large, dark body struggling to what has to be, desperately needs to be the surface.

It is. Suddenly, there is sweet, cold, precious air surrounding John’s head. He gulps it in greedily, still desperately holding on to the hairy thing that saved him, and which breaks through the surface next to him with the force of a small whale, snorting water from its nostrils and sucking in a long, gurgling breath before briefly submerging again. There is some struggle, then Sherlock emerges once more, gulping in another deep breath. John clings to him with what force he can muster in his aching, exhausted limbs.

When he feels both his and Sherlock’s breathing calm a little, he looks about to get his bearings. They are still drifting in the middle of the river. Ahead looms a dark shadow. Albert Bridge, John reasons when his brain has recovered some functionality. Sherlock, too, seems to have regained his orientation. He begins to swim more determinedly, making towards the left shore where, illuminated by the the white glow from the street lamps along Chelsea Embankment, John can make out the masts and white hulls of small yachts and other boats moored along a number of quays.

They have almost drifted past the small harbour when John feels Sherlock increase his struggle against a current that seems determined to wash them out into the Channel. He lets go of Sherlock’s mane with his right hand to try and help with the swimming. His fingers are cramped from holding on so desperately and from the cold water which by now has chilled him to the very bones. But the movement helps. He kicks out with his legs, careful not to hit Sherlock, and slowly, they are heading towards the bank of the river.

John can make out a wall looming up ahead of them, its lower half covered in dark algae. Low tide, shoots through John’s brain. That would explain the relentless, sucking current. Suddenly, he feels Sherlock lurch and stumble, and then heave himself up out of the water when apparently his hooves have found purchase on the ground. A narrow beach lies ahead, shingly and strewn with bits of driftwood, plastic waste and other strange things John can’t recognise in the gloom. He’s not sure he wants to see them more clearly, anyway. Weird things end up in the Thames, and not all of them wonderful.

Soon, he, too, can feel the ground under his feet. It’s soft and slippery, but he manages to drag himself up onto the beach with heavy, faltering steps. Sherlock, too, slinks wearily up the shore towards the wall, his head dropping almost to the muddy, sandy ground, his mane and tail hanging lank like seaweed during low tide. John still holds on to his mane with one hand because he knows that if he lets go, he’ll simply fall over. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind.

Together, they totter up the sloping beach until they reach the wall. Sherlock sags against it with a loud snort. John can feel him shake and tremble next to him, both from the cold water and the strain of dragging both himself and John out of it. He manages to reach the wall, too, and slumps against it unceremoniously, not caring if his back is going to be slimed by the algae afterwards. His clothes are ruined, anyway. But he’s alive. His eyes sting, his lungs and head hurt, as does the rest of his body. He has swallowed more than a mouthful of water which he is convinced is the very opposite of healthy, but he is alive and breathing.

And so, miraculously, is Sherlock next to him. For a while, too exhausted to do anything else, John watches him as he stands half-leaning against the wall on trembling legs, sucking in deep, rumbling breaths while shivers wrack his coat. With what seems a monumental effort, John sidles closer until he can place a hand on Sherlock’s heaving neck. Sherlock’s head twitches up at the touch. He makes a half-hearted effort of shaking his wet forelock out of his eyes and fails. John brushes the strands away tenderly. Sherlock’s eyes meet his. He snickers weakly, as if to enquire whether John is all right.

John nods. “I’m fine,” he manages. His voice is hoarse and croaky. Talking, it seems, requires extra air, which means extra breathing effort, which he doesn’t quite feel ready for yet.

“Thanks,” he adds after a moment and several deep breaths.

Sherlock snorts softly, his head drooping again. He, too, seems chiefly engaged in breathing at the moment. For a while they simply remain huddled against the wall until John feels strong enough to devote energy to other things. He lifts his head and studies Sherlock.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Sherlock appears to take stock of his physical state for a moment, then shakes his head. He gives John a keen, penetrating glance, the question clear. “I’m unhurt, too,” John reassures him, stricken once more by the undisguised worry in the strange eyes. “I'm just cold and wet, and I’ve likely swallowed more water than is healthy. But I’ll live.”

He doesn’t mention how close he thinks he came to drowning. It seems too dark to admit. Likely, he reckons, Sherlock knows. He, too, must have fought for his life, surviving only by his greater bodily strength and buoyancy, and using these assets to rescue John as well. _No,_ thinks John, _better not brood on these things now._

He gazes at Sherlock who looks at him at the same time, and suddenly, John is stricken by how ridiculously foolish and lucky they’ve been. Outrunning a cab, narrowly escaping being overrun by a bloody doubledecker bus, dodging cars and then leaping into the bleeding Thames, surviving both a fall from a considerable height and a tumble in the cold, unclean water. And what’s more, they’ve done so without obtaining more serious injuries than a few bruises and aching limbs. And then they avoided drowning by sheer perseverance and again, luck, by falling into deep water instead of hitting shingly shoals. _Good God,_ thinks John, _aren’t we the world’s two luckiest bastards? Blimey, we made it. We fucking made it._

He feels a grin stretch his face as laughter wells up in him, bubbling up like a hot spring and then gushing forth like a geyser. He giggles, then laughs, almost doubling over. Sherlock watches him, his eyes wide. He gives a questioning snort.

John points at him, playfully tapping his nose with a finger because of a sudden he his struck by how funny Sherlock looks with his dishevelled mane and his his horsey face and his bright eyes. “That,” he wheezes, because breathing has become difficult again, “was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock’s confused expression changes. He snickers happily, as if to imply that John has wrangled tigers and rhinos and elephants, and that moreover in the past few days, the two of them have done a fair number of ridiculous things. He almost sounds like he is laughing, too, chuckling in his throat.

On an impulse, John takes his large head into both hands and pulls it towards him, placing his forehead against Sherlock’s and closing his eyes, still laughing from the pure joy of being here with his friend, of having survived the most precarious of situations. Adrenaline and all kinds of endorphins are coursing through his system, he feels light-headed and confident and very, very relieved. And alive. So incredibly alive, alive in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. It’s exciting, exhilarating and utterly brilliant.

He feels Sherlock struggle a little in his grip and releases him, leaning back to gaze into the large, bright eyes, to find to his surprise that Sherlock is regarding him with a strange expression. He looks almost shocked, a little embarrassed while at the same time strangely touched and ... John isn’t quite sure. There is something else there. Sherlock’s pupils are wide and dark. There is little light where they are standing, so the dilation could be attributed to the outer circumstances. But John isn’t certain whether that really is the only reason. Sherlock is looking at him like he is the most fascinating, brilliant thing in the world. He feels his heartbeat accelerate. Blood shoots into his cheeks. His ears, he is certain, must be literally glowing in the gloom. His laughter subsides and his broad grin is replaced by a gentle, somewhat uncertain smile.

Sherlock makes a small, questioning sound but doesn’t break the connection, his eyes boring into John’s. John swallows. The air between them seems charged of a sudden, crackling with the tension of things secretly felt and never spoken, things that have slowly been growing in the dark, hidden places of their minds and hearts. This isn’t adrenaline-fuelled exhilaration anymore, this is something else, John realises, something which, if he is completely honest with himself, has been lingering on the edge of his dreams for a while now. He becomes aware how much he has come to like Sherlock, enjoy his company, his intelligence, the wry humour that is discernible despite the fact he can’t utter witty repartees. With sudden, blinding clarity, John understands that not only a strong friendship has developed between them, but something else. And that miraculously, Sherlock appears to be feeling it, too.

 _I’m falling in love with him,_ thinks John, and to his surprise, the revelation doesn’t shock him as perhaps it should, given ... well, everything about their circumstances. _I’ve never been happier than during those past weeks spent with him, and I’d be devastated if our time together came to an end._

Some part of his brain suggests mildly that he should be more concerned about this revelation. After all, Sherlock is a man, and not even that at the moment, at least not his shape. John never considered himself gay, nor bisexual, although he’s always appreciated the odd handsome bloke on a purely aesthetic level. He never acted upon that attraction, however. It seemed easier to stick to birds, particularly after witnessing the initial strife and contention Harry’s enthusiastic coming out caused in the Watson family. So yeah, finding men attractive doesn’t shock him. But this is not about outward attraction, he knows. This is something deeper, more serious. On the photo he saw, he found Sherlock’s looks appealing: striking and unusual. But he didn’t feel any desire to bed the man. He isn’t sure his attraction to Sherlock is sexual now, either. It’s rather that he is falling in love with Sherlock’s character which is clearly present despite his equine shape. Perhaps even more so, because due to his altered circumstances, Sherlock is in a way reduced to his very essence. He is forced to try and communicate with the most basic of means, which makes all his actions, his touching displays of insecurity, frustration and especially affection all the more genuine.

And Sherlock? John is sure that he likes his doctor, and that he enjoys his company and even his proximity, seeking out his touch on more than one occasion in an endearingly shy and awkward way. John remembers what Lestrade said about Sherlock’s past and his apparent lack of romantic or sexual partners, and indeed the fact that the man appears to have been shunned and avoided by most of his peers. John believes the DI has observed correctly. Sherlock appears to be a novice in the romance and even, sadly, the friendship department. He is going about wooing John – if that what he is doing – with all the finesse and experience of an awkward adolescent suffering his first crush. _Being horse-shaped might actually be an advantage,_ thinks John, his heart going out to Sherlock while he is trying to curb his sudden impulse to hug him, _because like this he has to rely on actions only and can’t mess up things with harsh words._

Sherlock, too, appears to be momentarily overwhelmed by emotion. He is more practical at dealing with it, however. He snorts, takes a step back, and engages in a vigorous shake of his entire body that sends droplets of Thames water in every direction. A good deal land on John, who growls in half-hearted protest and then laughs, wiping water out of his eyes and running both hands through his hair. He’s still completely drenched, anyway, and he’s beginning to feel the cold. A gusty wind is blowing downriver. John shivers and tries to wring some water out of his sleeves.

Sherlock watches him with narrowed, worried eyes. “What now?” asks John. “Where do we go? Can we even get out of here?”

He looks about. Sherlock snorts and turns his head, nodding towards a flight of steps leading up to Chelsea Embankment. Then he gazes back at John.

“We need a place to hide,” states John. “Preferably one that’s warm and dry, and where there’s the possibility of a shower, a change of clothes and some hot tea. But we can’t simply check into a hotel, can we? And my flat is out of the question. It’s on the fourth floor, and too small for you even if you managed to climb the stairs.”

At mentioning the hotel, he reflexively reaches for his wallet. It’s still there, luckily, but rather waterlogged. He opens it, shakes the water out, and has a critical look at his credit- and debit cards. The leather appears to have protected them somewhat. The business cards, receipts and other papers are completely soaked. What pound notes he had he gave to the Romanians. He looks up at Sherlock.

“We need to stop at a bank. I only have about eight quid in coins left. Hope my card still works.”

With a stab of worry, he remembers his mobile. It appears not to have fared as well as the cards. He tries switching it on, but it doesn’t react in any way. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Sherlock snorts sympathetically, looking a little guilty. John sighs and returns the phone to the inner pocket of his jacket. “Hey, it’s not your fault. Or, well, technically it is. I’ll see if I can save it by packing it in salt to draw out the moisture. It’s worked before. Could be worse, though, I guess. We could be dead. Hope the SIM card has survived, at least, so that all my contacts and numbers are still there. Shit, Marku and the others can’t reach us now, can they? Pity I didn’t think of asking for their numbers. I believe they know more than they let on.”

Another gust of wind gusts over the water. John shivers. Sherlock steps closer to him and places himself so that he effectively acts like a windscreen. John rubs his muzzle in a quiet thank you.

“Seriously, Sherlock, what are we going to do?”

Sherlock nudges his side with his head, then begins to write into the muddy shingle with his right forehoof.

“221B,” reads John. “You mean your flat? You want us to go there? But that’s a tidy way, Baker Street, isn’t it? You sure you can still walk that far? I know you rather overstrained yourself, and I’m really worried about your hooves.”

Sherlock shakes his head and snorts emphatically. John scratches his head and studies him doubtfully. “Can we simply show up there without raising suspicion? How would we get in, anyway? I don’t think you have a key on you somewhere, have you?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

John sighs. “See? We can’t just knock on your landlady’s door and ask her to let us in. I’m a complete stranger to her, and you ... Moreover, Sherlock, don’t you think they’d be looking for us there in the first place, whoever were chasing us?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then shakes his head, before pointing at his squiggly writing again. John bites his lip, taking in the strange urgency with which Sherlock is suggesting this option.

“It was your plan to return to your flat all along, wasn’t it?” John wants to know. Sherlock blinks at him and nods.

“Is there anything at your flat that pertains to our case? Your transformation, I mean, or whatever you found out about Wickham and her studies before you were ... changed?” Sherlock makes his shrugging motion, but then gives a small nod.

“Okay then,” relents John. “I trust you. I just hope you know what you’re doing. And I also hope, fervently, that your landlady has a strong constitution should we encounter her. She’ll likely think that I’m a burglar, and you an escaped circus horse. She’s bound to call the police when he show up. Or she’ll knock me down with a frying pan. Or simply faint.”

Sherlock snorts in protest, before nudging John again, apparently to get him to move. John zips up his wet jacket to at least try and keep out the wind, before trudging over the shingle towards the stairs.

Getting Sherlock up the narrow, slippery steps is a bit of a struggle. John wonders what his flat is like, and whether any staircases will have to be scaled there. But Sherlock appears confident that he will manage, and so John decides to do just as he claimed and trust him once again. It’s not that he has a lot of choice, anyway, the thinks wryly as he looks about for a convenient bench to aid him in climbing onto Sherlock’s back.

 

**- <o>-**

 

It takes them well over an hour to reach their destination. It’s a journey of slow, meandering walk through Chelsea with its red-bricked victorian houses, on to Belgravia with its posh, white terraces and their pillared porticoes. All the time, John looks out for suspicious cabs or other cars or passers-by who appear to take an interest in them. But nobody pays them any particular attention, not even when they stop at a NatWest for John to withdraw some money. His card is still working, which is a relief.

The tingle of threat he sometimes feels when he senses danger isn’t present when they continue their journey. Sherlock, too, though attentive, appears untroubled, concentrating rather on finding his way through a maze of small streets while avoiding the larger, busier ones, particularly around Victoria Station.

Unfortunately, they have to cross Knightsbridge, which even at this late hour is all but deserted. The affluent – no, the disgustingly rich – are exercising their impossibly fancy sports cars up and down the road, roaring past Harrods all the way down to the V&A, and then up again to circle Hyde Park Corner and race down Knightsbridge once more. The sole purpose of the venture is being seen, and to make half of London hear their cars accelerate.

John mumbles a curse under his breath when they have to wait for a yellow Lamborghini and a car the make of which he doesn’t recognise to speed past and let them cross. Sherlock snorts with derision, too.

“What bloody idiots,” grumbles John. “For people like that, petrol and parking charges can’t be high enough. I mean, you must be a bit of an idiot to drive such a wasteful car in the first place, but to do so in a crowded place like London with good public transport you must be especially idiotic. But I guess people get like that if they’re that rich. The more money you have, the less decency and humanity you retain. Look at Marku and his friends. They haven’t got anything, and yet they helped us, and even felt bad about accepting my money despite clearly needing a bit of cash. And yet they’re being chased away wherever they show up, while these rich arseholes can do whatever they like.”

Sherlock turns his head to give John a long, level glance, then he nods. He seems contemplative. John wonders whether he has offended him in any way. From what he has seen of Sherlock’s human form and gathered about his familial background, mostly from encountering Sherlock’s brother, he has an inkling that Sherlock is a bit posh, too. Still, he doesn’t strike John as the type who wastes money on a ridiculously priced car. Suddenly, he is extremely curious to see Sherlock’s flat and to learn more about the man hidden inside the horse’s body.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John’s sudden eagerness to reach 221B Baker Street is also due to the fact that he is chilled to the bones. That notwithstanding, once they have reached Hyde Park he feels compelled to dismount, foregoing what warmth entered his body through his soggy jeans from Sherlock’s broad back. His plan is to force Sherlock to rest for a bit. Sherlock’s pace has slowed considerably the longer he’s been walking, and after the brief trot across Knightsbridge his breathing has become laboured. His head is dropping, his gait has become irregular, and he keeps stumbling over kerbs or manhole covers.

“Stop here, Sherlock,” John orders him sternly, pointing towards a sheltered little grove away from the main path. Sherlock gives a weak snicker in protest but John shakes his head firmly. “We’ll stop here long enough for you to rest and eat something. There are fresh young leaves on these trees, and the grass looks good, too. Please, Sherlock, I know you don’t particularly like this kind of food, but please do me the favour (if not yourself) and get some fodder into you. Knowing you, and also considering the fact that you haven’t been home for weeks, I doubt you’ve got anything edible at your place.”

Sherlock makes some protesting noises, but eventually relents under John’s unfaltering glare and begins to graze. John huddles into his clammy jacket on a nearby bench and watches him. It’s near closing time, they need to get out of the park before midnight, but even if he won’t ever admit it, Sherlock desperately needs the rest. John doesn’t think he obtained any serious injuries during their jump, but there has been a lot of running around today on hard tarmac, and Sherlock still has not regained his full strength after his previous injuries.

Twenty minutes later, John rather hears and smells than sees Sherlock approach through the gloom under the trees. He snorts into John’s face, his breath smelling of turf, as if to prove that yes, he has eaten, and now feels ready to move on.

John unfolds himself with a sigh. He’s dead tired and almost dropped off more than once. “Want me to walk?” he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock shakes his head, and although John is convinced that it would be easier on Sherlock’s legs not having to carry his extra weight, he is secretly grateful for the chance to ride. Thus he mounts, and they set out northwards.

They barely make it through the gate onto Bayswater Road before it’s shut for the night. On the pavement, they meet a group of young clubbers heading towards Oxford Street and likely on to Soho, already half-drunk, loud and boisterous. The young men approach them as they wait at a pedestrian crossing for a break in the traffic. John sighs and rolls his eyes. The group looks like a stag party. Why on earth they have chosen a Sunday night for their thing is a marvel to him.

“Hey, Gary, look,” cries one, “I told you. There are black unicorns.”

“Don’t see no unicorn, just a black horse,” grumbles another, Gary, apparently, who is wearing a pink, frilly top, fairy wings, and something glittery in his hair.

One of his mates hands him a bottle of booze and urges him to have a drink. “See the unicorn now?”

“Nah.”

“Haha, so apparently you did get laid at some point, eh? Thought you wanted to wait for the wedding night. Oi, mate,” the speaker then addresses John. “Can we take a picture of your unicorn with Gary on it?”

John sighs and shakes his head, desperately wishing for a gap in the cars and buses so that they can move on. “Sorry, no. He doesn’t like strangers.”

“Ah, come on, mate, poor Gary here, it’s his last night as a free man, ya see. And your horsey is real pretty.”

“Sorry, but no,” replies John more forcefully. Sherlock has tensed under him, ready to bolt. The men close in, mobile phones at the ready. One reaches for Sherlock’s mane, and they are off. Winding through the traffic, Sherlock crosses the road at a brief but forceful gallop that almost causes John to fall off.

“Morons,” he comments when they make it safely but a little ruffled to the other side, the men hollering obscenities after them.

 

**- <o>-**

 

The rest of the journey passes in peace. Sherlock’s abode is situated at the northern end of Baker Street near the southern gate of Regent’s Park. John recognises the flat’s entrance from article in the _Daily Mail._ There is a café with a red awning next to it, its chairs and tables cleared away for the night. This part of Baker Street, away from the bustle of the Tube station and Madame Tussaud’s, is quiet. Apart from a few parked cars it seems deserted. John studies the black door with its brass knocker, then lifts his gaze to the dark windows. The house appears devoid of all life.

He looks around, but nobody is about, not even a car is passing. Apparently they haven’t been followed. The parked cars are empty, too. Walking slowly, Sherlock seems to be studying and even sniffing the door and the pavement leading up to it, before shaking his mane and snorting. With a lingering glance at the knocker, he sets out past the café. Behind the small shop a few houses uproad, he rounds a corner to the left and ducks into a narrow mews, cobble-stoned and lined by bins, a few threadbare bicycles and other bric-a-brac stacked between them. Eventually, the mews widens to provide space for a few plants in terra-cotta containers. Apparently, somebody worked hard to create a make-shift garden. Light issues from windows of some of the surrounding houses. On a partitioning brick wall, a cat sits, eyeing them curiously, and vanishing when they draw close.

Sherlock purposefully makes for the basement flat, the back door of which is framed by the potted plants and mediterranean shrubs. The rosemary emits a faint, resinous scent that reminds John of a family holiday in Italy, many years ago, during which he received his first kiss.

Sherlock stops in front of the door, then motions for John to slide off his back. John does so, then points towards the door. “Is this where your landlady lives?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, indicating to John to go and knock on the door. John raises both eyebrows. “You sure?”

Sherlock nods again, before pounding the ground with his forehoof. _Ah,_ thinks John, _a code._ Sherlock repeats it, and John smiles thinly. “This is going to be interesting,” he mutters under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair and straightens his jacket, before descending the short flight of steps to the door.

He draws a deep breath, raises his hand to knock, then casts a glance at Sherlock over his shoulder who is snorting impatiently, swishing his tail and nodding his head.

John knocks, carefully emulating the signal. Then he waits. Behind him, he hears the clatter of Sherlock’s hooves on the cobble-stones as he paces about agitatedly.

A shadow moves behind the door. The lacy curtain of the window next to it flutters. A bolt is slid back, and a key turns in a lock. Then the door opens a fraction and a pair of bright eyes peek out. John catches a glimpse of a lined, kind face that reminds him of his granny’s. The eyes study him keenly and with obvious suspicion. Apparently the elderly lady expected somebody else. John marvels that she’s still up. She appears to be wearing a dressing gown. He fervently hopes they didn’t rouse her from sleep.

“Er ... hello, Mrs. Hudson?” he begins.

She nods briskly. He exhales. “Um ... my name is John Watson. I’m ... uh ... a friend of Sherlock’s.”

Her tense, suspicious expression softens a little. “Are you the doctor?” she asks. Taken aback, John casts another glance at Sherlock who snorts and draws closer, beginning to climb down the steps.

“Er ... doctor?” John cannot hide his surprise and confusion. “Well, yes, I’m a veterinarian.” Then a thought strikes him. Mycroft Holmes. The man likely has access to CCTV all over the city. Surely Sherlock’s and his outing, and likely their involuntary swim in the Thames didn’t go unnoticed by Big Brother, nor did the destination of their journey. Did Mycroft call ahead and warn the formidable Mrs. Hudson of their arrival?

“Did Sherlock’s brother mention me?” John asks.

She nods. “Yes. He phoned me and said you and Sherlock were coming. Where is he? And what kind of trouble has he gotten himself into now? I only heard he was ill, and that’s why he hasn’t been in lately. Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious. The poor boy. I always worry about him because he tends to get himself into all kinds of strange situations.”

John scratches his head while behind him, Sherlock is making impatient snuffling noises. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widen when she spots the dark creature looming behind John on the narrow staircase. “Well,” begins John, “the matter is a bit ... complicated. Sherlock isn’t ill per se. He just looks a bit ... um ... different at the moment.” He tries to smile reassuringly and fails, and then simply steps aside to let Sherlock press forward.

He hears Mrs. Hudson inhale sharply. Then there’s the clatter of a chain being slid back and the door opening. “Sherlock?” she asks. Sherlock nods and snickers softly. John tries to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the elderly woman to see whether she is in any danger of fainting. She certainly looks pale in her light-blue terrycloth dressing gown over a flowery nighty, but despite her small, slight frame there is nothing frail about her. This impression is deepened by the sturdy iron saucepan she is gripping in one hand and which now slowly sinks to her side to then clatter onto the floor.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she breathes. “Oh you silly, silly boy. What have you gotten yourself into now? I knew there was something odd about the black horse on Baker Street. I half feared it was you, but then told myself off, because who has ever heard about people getting turned into animals? But then you’ve always been fiddling with these strange chemicals, and so I thought that if anybody managed, it would be you. And now here you are. And look at you, you poor thing. You’re a fine specimen for sure, but all ... wet? What happened to you? It’s not been raining. Oh Sherlock, what is going on?”

John ducks under Sherlock’s neck. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll gladly explain everything, but could we please come in? I know it must be very inconvenient given the late hour and the fact we’re still somewhat wet, not to mention Sherlock’s general state. But I’d rather not spend more time out here than absolutely necessary for fear of waking your neighbours.”

She nods, ushering him through the door and a beaded curtain into a small, cozy looking kitchen. Behind him, there is a clatter of hooves when Sherlock squeezes through the door. On the threshold he stops briefly, and to John’s shocked surprise and silent amusement carefully wipe all four hooves on Mrs. Hudson’s doormat. He does have manners, after all. She nods approvingly, apparently no longer fazed that her tenant is a horse now, and closes the door behind him, locking and bolting it for good measure. The small kitchen is filled with Sherlock’s dark, soggy shape now.

Mrs. Hudson extents a hesitant hand and touches his broad neck. Sherlock shivers slightly, before bending his head and rubbing it gently against her arm in a touching display of affection. John catches himself smiling fondly at him. Apparently Mrs. Hudson it more than a landlady. She appears to resemble a mother-figure for Sherlock, or at least a beloved aunt, someone he trusts and likes, and who he tolerates and even accepts criticism from.

And she, decides John, must be extraordinarily thick-skinned and patient, as well as being blessed with a dry sense of humour to endure a tenant like Sherlock with his odd profession and even odder habits, if tales be true.

“Will you be able to go upstairs?” asks Mrs. Hudson, before clapping her hand in front of her mouth and looking at John. “Oh, sorry. I forgot he can’t understand me. My apologies, I’ve been somewhat ignoring you, Dr. Watson. It’s just ... this is so strange, and so marvellous.”

John smiles. “Yes, it is. But don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. You can talk to him directly. He can understand us and even reply using signs. He just can’t talk.”

She looks up and gives Sherlock a shrewd, somewhat amused glance. “Oh, this must gall him somewhat badly. There were days when he would talk to himself for hours on end. I could hear him pace upstairs and the murmur of his voice. It’s a nice voice, mind, but not when it drones on for half a day. Or he would chat with that dreadful skull of his in the middle of the night. Being brilliant, no doubt. It just ... it was a bit creepy when I heard his voice go on about murders all the time, you see. But don’t mind that now. You boys ... oh, I mean, you, Dr. Watson, would surely like a cuppa, am I right? I’ll bring it up in a moment, and see if I can find something for poor Sherlock, too. You lads go upstairs. I’ll be with you shortly. Will you be needing anything else?”

John shakes his head, touched by and very grateful for her care. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Sherlock can show me around, and perhaps I can wear some dry clothes of his, if they fit.”

Sherlock gives him a strange, keen glance at this, then presses past John to lead the way. John gives the landlady a quick smile when she is busy filling the kettle before following him. He reckons that Mrs. Hudson for all her sangfroid at accepting this highly unusual set of circumstances needs a moment to herself now, and maybe a glass of brandy or something similar to fortify her. Moreover, he’s more curious than ever to see Sherlock’s living quarters. He wonders if they are as cozy, pastel-coloured and flowery like his landlady’s.

The hall looks somewhat less like a mixture of William Morris and Laura Ashley with a fairly plain, olive-coloured structured wallpaper and a wooden staircase, the steps showing signs of long years of use. The place smells of a spicy potpourri. Sherlock has somehow managed to switch on the light with his muzzle and is how eyeing the stairs doubtfully.

“Will you manage?” asks John quietly. Sherlock nods and begins to climb what amounts to seventeen steps. He succeeds surprisingly well, although John wonders how on earth he is going to get down again.

On the first floor landing, Sherlock clatters straight ahead past a rather gaudy, old-fashioned bamboo-patterned wallpaper into a large sitting room. Orange light from the street lamps below filters through the large windows facing Baker Street. John sees a leather sofa placed against the right hand wall which is covered in a broad-patterned, flocked wallpaper so striking that it’s quite nice if a bit overwhelming. The rest of the room is occupied by a mixture of old and modern furniture, more outrageously patterned wallpapers that give the place a Victorian, crowded, lived in yet strangely cozy atmosphere which John finds very appealing. It’s homely, and seems to contain everything his own little bedsit lacks. The room bears traces of a broadly interested and apparently easily bored occupant. Many strange and curious things hide in nooks and corners. Every shelf or level surface is beset with some curiosity or other. John spots a music stand with sheet music, a stack of what look like women’s magazines, a violin case, a skull painting. On the other side of the sofa a yellow smiley face has been sprayed onto the patterned wallpaper. It looks like it’s riddled by bullet holes. There is a framed collection of bullets, too, and a picture frame with an assortment of bats and beetles, many, many books, two armchairs, one ornate and comfortable looking, another plain and functional and modern, a designer piece, all steel tubes and leather upholstery. There is a fireplace, a real one, too, framed by Art Deco tiles. Yet more strange things adorn the mantlepiece, among them a folding knife pinning down a stack of letters, and the skull Mrs. Hudson referred to. It looks surprisingly real – or not surprisingly, thinks John, giving that it belongs to Sherlock.

It’s owner now fiddles with the light-switch, snorts in frustration when he fails to operate it with his muzzle, then half turns to gaze at John. He isn’t sure because of the dim illumination, but he thinks he can detect a hint of anxious expectancy in Sherlock’s eyes, as if his friend is waiting for his verdict. He steps past him and switches on the light. It reveals even more curious items stacked in corners and occupying the wooden desk situated between the two windows, and reinforces his impression of organised (and admittedly rather charming) chaos.

He looks at Sherlock and smiles. “Wow,” he says. “This is some place you’ve got here. No comparison to where I live. This is ...,” he makes a gesture that encompasses the entire room. “It’s great. Really. And so large. I wonder how you can afford it, central as it is. Rent must cost a fortune. Kitchen over there?” He points at a set of sliding doors. Sherlock nods.

“Um ... guess there’s a bathroom as well? I could really use a toilet.”

Sherlock has begun to rummage among the things on his desk with his nose, apparently looking for something. At John’s words, he lifts his head and nods towards the kitchen. John sighs and sets out to explore the rest of the flat.

The kitchen perfectly matches the living room in its assortment of well-used furniture. A small but very well equipped chemistry lab has been established on the table. John spots a top-notch microscope, and several chemicals which aren’t readily available over the counter and shouldn’t be used anywhere near food. But then, there are few indications that the kitchen has ever been used for cooking, unless it be heating chemical experiments. John has an inkling that what little cooked food Sherlock eats is either takeaway or provided by Mrs. Hudson. A faint smell John can’t quite place lingers in the room, which brings up memories of his uni days and lessons in pathology. All in all, the kitchen, like the rest of the flat, isn’t very tidy. John imagines Mrs. Hudson to clean occasionally because Sherlock is too busy or distracted to do it himself.

John can hear him wander about in the living room, pushing furniture out of the way as he keeps searching whatever he is looking for. Needing the loo really bad now, John moves down a corridor. Ahead through an open door he glimpses a surprisingly tidy bedroom with a double bed. He tries the closed door to the left and finds what he is looking for.

After relieving himself, he washes his hands and face, his eyebrows going up when he sees a number of what looks like pickled ... things lined up on top of the mirror-fronted cupboard over the sink. Hearing the clatter of hooves, he sees Sherlock’s head reflected in the mirror. John cannot help smiling at the absurdity of his situation.

_I’m in the home of a man I only know in equine shape, and said horse-man is in here with me, a bloody big animal right inside a London flat, and what’s more a flat with a skull on the mantlepiece and dead things floating in glass jars in the bathroom. Wonder what lives in the fridge._

“Hey,” he says. “Need the loo as well?” he asks, feeling sheepish for a moment. Then he considers that in fact, his enquiry isn’t that silly after all. This is not a stable, meaning that Sherlock better not let his things drop wherever he pleases. But John reckons he’ll keep that in mind. He does have some manners. After all, he even wiped his hooves upon entering Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.

Sherlock shakes his head, but motions towards the sink. “Are you thirsty?” John wants to know. Sherlock nods. John rinses and scrubs the sink (better be safe), stoppers it and lets water run until it is half full, before stepping aside to let Sherlock drink. He barely fits into the small bathroom, crowding John against the bathtub. John rubs the back of his head as he watches him.

“Er ... Sherlock, do you mind if I had a look around for some dry clothes? I’m bloody freezing, and this stuff begins to reek a bit. Wonder if I could launder it.”

Sherlock lifts his head out of the sink, his muzzle dripping water, and shakes this head. John understands he does not mind. He squeezes past Sherlock and heads through a door with frosted panes into Sherlock’s bedroom. The bed is made, cream-white sheets crisp and expensive looking. It’s beckoning invitingly to John’s tired body. The room is tidier than the rest of the flat, which, however, doesn’t mean that there aren’t strange things standing or hanging around, such as what looks like a martial arts certificate and a picture of the periodic table of elements. On a chest of drawers next to a massive wooden wardrobe, John spots a few framed photographs, half hidden by a stack of books on apiology.

One picture grabs his attention. It’s a colour photograph with the typical yellowish tint of pictures from the 1970s or early '80s. It shows two boys on a beach. One looks to be in his early teens, a bit pudgy round his middle, with dark gingery hair and freckles, sitting under a parasol with a book on his lap. He is looking up at a small, knobbly-kneed boy with a mop of tousled dark curls who is holding what looks like a large jellyfish out to him on a stick, his expression one of genuine interest, even pride and wonder, while the older boy looks both disgusted and alarmed.

John regards the photo with a warm smile. Not much seems to have changed with the Holmes brothers, even after thirty plus years. Mycroft is still the aloof elder brother, while Sherlock remains the curious one irrevocably drawn towards the bizarre, even dangerous (on closer inspection, the jellyfish looks like a Portugese man o’ war, its long tentacles beset with poisonous stingers).

Moving on to the wardrobe, his smile widens when he sees Sherlock’s collection of clothes. One half appears to consist of sleek, dark suits, their fabric smooth and expensive, their tailoring, as far as John can judge, immaculate, likely bespoke. He takes one out and runs his hands over it. _Yes, Sherlock is a bit posh,_ he decides. Judging by the size and cut of the suit, he is also tall and slender, with long arms and legs and a narrow waist. John doubts that any of the suits would fit him, despite him being smaller than Sherlock.

The shirts he finds, arranged by colour down to minute variations of shade, are likewise expensive and slim-cut. John wonders how anybody can breathe in them, should they actually manage to close the buttons. On the labels, he reads names like Dolce and Gabbana, and estimates that he could get about ten good quality shirts at Marks & Spencer’s for the same price.

Another part of the wardrobe which isn’t occupied by what looks like boxes of case folders houses a wild collection of clothing. John sees everything from medieval tunics to a shirt of chainmail with the appropriate undergarments, to a priest’s habit, several tradesmen’s outfits, a late Victorian dress including corset and bustle (his eyebrows disappear into his hairline at this find), and the hoodie, wide slacks and trainers Lestrade may have encountered Sherlock in the first time they met.

Intrigued barely covers John’s state of mind, and he has to forcibly pull himself away from the wardrobe to search the chest of drawers for more appropriate attire. The topmost drawer houses socks, again indexed by colour, length, fabric and whatever else Sherlock thought he could categorise them into. _Bit OCD, the lad,_ thinks John fondly. He chooses a pair that look warm, before, his face heating a bit, the tries the next drawer which contains underwear.

Again John is in for a surprise. Given the exquisite nature of most of Sherlock’s garments apart from some of the costumes, John expected Sherlock’s pants to be rather posh, too. Black silk or something along the lines. There are a few like that, two or three. They look rarely worn, however. The majority of pants are surprisingly normal, even a bit, if John were completely honest, on the cheap and moreover threadbare side, as if they’ve been worn and laundered for years and years, even decades. Once more he recalls Lestrade’s words. This is definitely not the kind of underwear one would want a sexual partner to see, at least not during the first stages of a relationship when one is eager to impress and woo the other. Some even appear to bear faded name-tags, likely from Sherlock’s school days.

John picks a pair of well-worn cotton boxer shorts and smiles a bit sadly. The state of Sherlock’s pants suggests a solitary, perhaps even lonely life without physical affection, while his suits and the impressive woollen coat draped over the bed appear to function as a sleek, impenetrable outward armour designed to awe people, and to keep them at bay. Once again, John considers himself exceedingly lucky that he has encountered Sherlock without that armour, that he gets to experience the genuine heart and soul behind the fortifications.

Searching some more, he finds an old, soft, grey t-shirt and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. He carries all his findings back into the bathroom, almost running into Sherlock who is standing in the door and has apparently been watching him. John holds up the clothes.

“Is it okay if I wear them until my stuff is clean and dry again?” Sherlock rolls his eyes and snorts. He backs into the bathroom, somehow managing to half turn without knocking anything over, before snickering softly and gazing at John expectantly. John ducks under his belly and deposits the clothes on the closed toilet seat, before looking around for a clean towel. He finds one in the cupboard under the sink. Coming up again, he cocks an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“You want to stay and watch?” he asks with unveiled amusement. Sherlock makes a spluttering noise and ducks his head. John reckons that as a human, he’d be blushing. He laughs softly, before studying Sherlock. He notices how ragged he looks, his usually shiny coat matted and dried in swirly crusts apart from where John sat on his back and flattened the hairs. His mane and tail are tangled and dishevelled.

John sighs, reaching out to touch the unruly strands. “You look like you could do with a shower yourself.” He takes a doubtful look at the narrow bathtub, worrying his lower lip as he considers logistics. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson has turned on the heating. There is a clanking of pipes coming alive with warm water. John still feels a bit clammy, but not as bad anymore, meaning he could postpone his shower for a little while. Spotting a large, soft sponge on a metal shelf next to the tub, he makes up his mind.

“Is this safe to use?” he asks Sherlock, not entirely seriously. Sherlock rolls his eyes and snickers. He looks intrigued. John grins and begins to fetch some more towels which he spreads on the floor, nudging Sherlock to step onto them, before quickly rinsing the tub, stoppering it and running hot water. Then he strips down to his soggy underwear, smirking when Sherlock, apparently a little embarrassed yet curious, pretends to not look at him.

“Hey, I thought you attended public school. Aren’t you used to showering with other blokes?” Sherlock makes a small sound John can’t interpret. He does raise his eyes and regards John thoroughly. He seems particularly interested in the bullet scar marring John’s left shoulder. John is suddenly aware that apart from the doctors and paramedics treating him, and himself, Sherlock is the first person to actually see the scar. John blushes self-consciously and tries to turn so that the damaged shoulder is cast in shadow. But Sherlock draws closer and nudges his shoulder gently.

John swallows. “Not exactly pretty, I know,” he mutters. Sherlock shakes his head, his muzzle hovering near the scar as if he is tempted to touch it. John can feel his breath on the exposed skin. He swallows again, his throat dry and tight. The situation feels incredibly intimate of a sudden.

He is grateful when Sherlock snickers softly and lifts his head, stepping back a pace. Feeling he needs even more space to shake off the intensity of the past few minutes, John scrambles into the bathtub to fetch shampoo and body wash. He presents his findings to Sherlock with an amused grin. “Shampoo and conditioner, seriously?” he teases. “You’re a bit on the vain side, aren’t you?” Sherlock makes a noise of protest, but then ducks his head. John laughs. “Want me to use them on you now?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Half an hour later, the bathroom looks like the Thames flowed through it. The towels on the floor are soaked, there are black hairs everywhere and a considerable amount of mud. But the room also features a shiny black horse smelling of walnut extract, his mane and tail sleek and clean, the coat almost glinting in the bright light of the halogen lamp over the sink.

John has just finished brushing Sherlock’s coat, mane and tail and has stepped back to view his work. He is thoroughly warmed up now. The bathroom is filled with steam. John can feel the fabric of his vest stick to his back. He wipes sweat from his brow as he pulls horsehairs out of Sherlock’s hairbrush and bins them.

“I must say, you do look presentable again,” he tells his charge appreciatively. “It’s also good to see that your legs aren’t as swollen as I feared they would be. Your hooves are a bit worrying, though. You rubbed off quite a bit of horn substance yesterday. We must be careful from now on.”

Sherlock acknowledges this, to John’s surprise. He claps Sherlock’s neck. “Why don’t you go and check on Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen. She’s been there for a while now, I think. I believe I heard her call out a while ago. I’ll quickly pop into the shower and be back in a moment, okay?”

Sherlock nods, but lingers in the doorway. He gives John another of his long, thoughtful looks which John finds difficult to read. He snickers softly, as if to thank John, before carefully, he backs out of the bathroom, somehow managing to pull the door shut behind him.

John begins to sort out the towel carnage on the floor, smiling to himself. Sponging down Sherlock hasn’t been the first time he’s done it. In fact, he has washed him several times, back at Sunny Meadows. But doing so here, in Sherlock’s own bathroom, while only wearing his underwear had seemed strangely ... intimate, particularly when he had massaged shampoo into his coat and run the sponge down his legs. Although he had been careful not to show it, Sherlock appeared to have enjoyed John’s ministrations, making soft content noises and even leaning against John’s side a little while he washed his flanks. John tells himself firmly not to interpret too much into the matter. They’ve both been through a lot lately, almost drowning in the Thames not least. It’s natural that they feel drawn to each other. Sherlock depends on him in a number of ways. And even if there was something more, given the current situation, they definitely have other problems and should have other priorities than even considering venturing into relationship country.

 

**- <o>-**

 

When he exits the bathroom ten minutes later, arrayed in Sherlock’s underwear and pyjamas and finally feeling something resembling a human being again, John makes a detour through Sherlock’s room to fetch the dark-blue dressing gown he spotted on a hook behind the door. It feels splendid, even if the sleeves are a bit long. Retrieving his mobile phone and his wallet from his jacket, he takes them into the kitchen to try and rescue them.

In the kitchen, he finds Mrs. Hudson seated at the table with Sherlock standing next to her, noisily eating something out of a large bowl.

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” she greets him, “I’ve made you some tea. I hope it’s still warm enough. There is some warmed up Shepherd’s Pie, too, if you fancy a late dinner. It’s from earlier, but I hope you don’t mind eating leftovers. I made Sherlock some porridge. Daft thing, he eats so little even when he is ... well ... human. But he seems to be enjoying this.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson, you are too kind.”

She waves a hand. “I do what I can. Now, have a seat, dear, and a bite, and let me look after your clothes.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you really don’t have to—,” John begins to object, but she tuts and shakes her head. “Don’t be silly,” she tells him, in a tone that brooks no argument.

John exchanges a quick glance with Sherlock who snorts softly into his porridge, his ears twitching, before with a sigh, he sits down at the table while Mrs. Hudson bustles off in the direction of the bathroom.

“She really is a dear,” comments John as he pours himself some tea. “You’re very lucky with your place here.”

Sherlock nods emphatically.

“Oh yes, he is,” remarks Mrs. Hudson from the bathroom. “He tends to forget it occasionally, treating me like I’m his housekeeper instead of his landlady. But then, he does need looking after. I’m so glad he has you now, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock ducks his head further into his bowl and pointedly doesn’t look at John, who smiles. “I’m glad to have him, too,” he mutters softly, more to himself. But Sherlock hears, his head jerking up, and once again he gazes at John, solemnly but with a hint of surprise and genuine affection. John blushes, and busies himself with the Shepherd’s Pie to hide his embarrassment at this unforeseen revelation.

Mrs. Hudson promises to wash and dry his garments, as well as the many used towels, which causes John protest again, and her to shush him. “You can get me some flowers one of these days,” she tells him with a wink. “Not that Sherlock ever thanks me,” she adds with a beady glance him him, which makes him look a little guilty. “But despite all his oddities, he is a good boy. Well, I shall leave you two to it, then. I’d love to hear how Sherlock managed to get himself turned into a horse. But it’s late, and we all need our sleep. You will tell me tomorrow. There is another bedroom upstairs, but the bed isn’t made up. I can fetch some linens, though, if you need them.”

“Oh no, I can sleep on the sofa,” interjects John, not wanting to cause her even more work. Sherlock shakes his head and nods towards his bedroom. “Or in Sherlock’s bed,” goes on John. “It’s not that he can sleep in there, anyway.”

Mrs. Hudson looks from one to the other and smiles fondly. “I’m sure you’ll sort things out, won’t you, Sherlock?”

John knows she isn’t simply referring to their sleeping arrangements. He looks at Sherlock, who nods.

“Did he tell you,” goes on Mrs. Hudson who apparently isn’t quite as tired as she just claimed, “that he did me a great favour once. That’s why I’m giving him a special rate for the rent now, although to be honest, I’m glad he’s living here. I’ve had far worse tenants.”

John thinks of the strange things in the bathroom and the hazardous chemicals in the kitchen, but refrains from commenting. Instead, he asks, “Which favour was that, Mrs. Hudson?”

Her face takes on a stern expression. “Oh, you know, some years ago I was still living in Florida, and my husband, Frank, he got himself sentenced to death.”

“Oh, right,” comments John surprisedly. The thought of Mrs. Hudson living in the US, or anywhere outside England, feels strangely wrong. “So Sherlock prevented your husband from being executed?“

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “Oh no,” she replies, smiling grimly. “He ensured it. And good riddance. My Frank ... he wasn’t a very nice man, you see. There were all these drugs in was involved in, and the other women, and the shady people. And when he blew someone’s head off ... well, he tried to hush it up, but Sherlock here, he saw right though it with that uncanny way of his. He helped me a lot back then, Sherlock. And when we were back in London and he needed a new place to stay, I was happy to offer him the flat. It’s large enough for two, a small family even. But Sherlock never brought friends home with him. Only clients show up regularly, and some of his ‘Irregulars’, street kids and such folks. And the nice Detective Inspector, and Sherlock’s brother, they come, too. Whereabouts do you live, Dr. Watson?”

“Brixton. It was meant to be only temporarily, until I found something better. But with rents as they are at the moment ...,” John shrugs and smiles a little sheepishly.

“Well, you could always share with him,” Mrs. Hudson nods at Sherlock. “As I said, he needs looking after, even when he’s not a horse. Good night, boys.”

She winks at them and bustles off. John exchanges a glance with Sherlock and grins broadly. “Your landlady was married to an international drug baron? Wow.”

Sherlock whinnies and dives back into his porridge bowl.

 

**- <o>-**

 

After Mrs. Hudson has left, John unearthes what he hopes is salt in one of the cupboards and buries his phone in a bowl of it. Mrs. Hudson has lit a fire in the living room. John goes and adds some fuel, before sinking into the soft armchair (not the designer one, which seems more appropriate for Sherlock). Leaning back against the headrest, nursing his tea, he closes his eyes. He could fall asleep here, his toes warmed by the fire, his belly full of tea and pie, lulled into slumber by the crackle of the flames and the soft noises Sherlock is making as he wanders about the living room, rumbling to himself.

John cracks open an eye and watches him. “Looking for anything in particular?” he enquires around a yawn.

Sherlock nods and John frowns thoughtfully. “Phone? Laptop? Antidote?” Sherlock makes a frustrated noise at the mention of the latter and continues to knock pillows off the sofa and push around papers and books on his desk. With a groan, John empties the mug with a long draught, pushes himself out of his chair and walks over to him.

“Sherlock, it’s after two. I’m knackered, and I know you are, too. Come on, let’s get some rest. We’ll have a look for your things tomorrow when it’s light, okay? If anything important happened, I’m sure your brother would have contacted us, or even shown up here himself. Or Lestrade would have sent word somehow. Hopefully, my phone will have revived after its salt bath. I also want to know what happened at Sunny Meadows after we left. I hope everybody is all right there. Moreover, I wonder if anybody saw or recorded what happened with the cab on Battersea Bridge. But preferably not tonight, yeah? Come on, lie down here. Do you want more water?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks undecided for a moment, before letting out a long snort and flopping down onto the worn carpet, pushing the two desk chairs out of the way in the process. John knows he is far more exhausted than he lets on. With a fond smile, he watches Sherlock try and get comfortable on the floor. A tartan blanket is resting over the back of the patterned armchair John has just occupied. He fetches it and spreads it over Sherlock’s body as the horse settles down. Sherlock snickers surprisedly, but doesn’t really protest.

“Sleep well, Sherlock,” says John quietly, resisting the urge to stroke his neck. Sherlock whinnies softly in reply before his head sinks down onto the carpet and he closes his eyes with a weary sigh.

John watches him, his heart swelling with affection for this strange, unique creature, before he switches off the lights and withdraws into the bathroom to see if he can find a new toothbrush. He smiles when he sees that Mrs. Hudson has deposited one next to the sink. After he’s brushed his teeth, he hesitates for a moment, before putting it into the old St. Barts mug next to Sherlock’s. _They look oddly domestic, standing there together,_ he thinks as he gazes at them. Again he feels an odd, warm feeling settle in his stomach area. Smiling to himself, he switches off the light and moves into Sherlock’s bedroom.

Before he slips under the duvet, John locates a Macbook under the bed, practically by almost stepping on it. It’s out of battery, so he searches for a cable and charger, which he finds in one of the drawers of Sherlock’s bedside table, hidden amidst a variety of strange and unusual objects such as a dried lizard in a cardboard box, several small notebooks filled with dense, spidery handwriting and pencil sketches of what look like injuries, a half-eaten box of expensive chocolates _(ah, a sweet tooth through and through,_ thinks John, _not just as a horse),_ a college scarf that has seen better days and makes John think of _Harry Potter_ , sea-shells and flint fossils, and a book on poisonous jellyfish.

“You really are an odd one,” he mutters as he plugs the laptop in to charge.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep does not claim him immediately. Too strange are the cool sheets and the pillow smelling of Sherlock’s walnut shampoo. Another scent lingers in the linens, faint and almost indiscernible. John can only assume that it’s Sherlock’s natural smell. Once again he is aware of the intimacy of him sleeping in his friend’s bed. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, in fact encouraged it. John tells himself to not overthink matters as he snuggles into the pillow and finally surrenders to sleep.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He is not sure what roused him when he wakes with a start. For a moment, he is disoriented. The bedside lamp is on the wrong side, and the bed is much wider than his and feels different. The faint orange glow filtering to the curtain of the small window is also different from the light in his room in Brixton. Fading images of a strange, disquieting dream linger in his mind as he stretches awkwardly to reach the light-switch. Something about water, and Sherlock. He was a sea-creature then, and they were being hunted by sharks with tiger stripes. John sits up with a groan, several of his muscles protesting. His throat feels dry and aches dully. Likely there is another cold coming on. He runs both hands through his hair before angling for his watch. It’s a quarter past five. He has only slept for about three hours.

With a sigh, he flicks back the duvet and shuffles into the bathroom to use the toilet. He drinks some water from the sink to ease his aching throat, but feels that it does little to assuage the pain. Rifling through the cupboard over the sink, he finds a number of costuming and make-up accessories, but nothing trustworthy in the shape of painkillers, or any medication he’s willing to risk taking. There isn’t even a working first aid kit, which he finds worrying. Donning the dressing gown again, he slinks into the kitchen to see if he can find some herbal tea, and some honey.

To his surprise, a fairly large selection of various teas lives in one of the cupboards, next to a row of glass bottles that appear to contain acids, according to their labels, at least. John doesn’t touch them. He fetches a bag of what he hopes is peppermint tea and a cleanish looking mug. While the water is heating, he quietly moves over to the living room. The fire has died down to glowing embers. The room is fairly warm, however. Sherlock’s body is a large dark heap in the middle of it. He is breathing deeply, stretched out on his side. REM sleep, not just dozing, John knows. _Poor thing was completely knackered._ The blanket has half slipped off Sherlock’s body. John feels tempted to replace it properly, but doesn’t want to wake the other. But as he withdraws into the kitchen, he hears Sherlock’s breathing change. His ears flick towards John and he makes a deep, rumbling sound.

“It’s just me, Sherlock,” John tells him quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock doesn’t heed his words, rousing even more. He lifts his head, blinks a few times in the dim light while apparently trying to sort out his surroundings. Then with a shudder and a snort, he struggles to his feet. The blanket slides to the floor. Swaying a little, he turns and moves towards John, who sighs.

“Sorry if I woke you. My throat is sore, hence the tea. You all right? You didn’t catch a cold, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. The kettle boils. John goes to pour the water. While the tea steeps, he returns to the living room and picks up the blanket, which he drapes over Sherlock’s back again. Sherlock looks at him questioningly, but accepts it.

“I found you laptop,” John tells him. “It should be charged now. Want me to get it so we can check our emails?”

Sherlock’s ears have pricked up at the mention of the laptop. His grogginess forgotten, he nods enthusiastically. John pats his shoulder and sets out to fetch the computer.

A short while later, they have moved to the sofa. Or rather, John has. He is sitting there with the Macbook on his lap and his tea in front of him on the coffee table. Sherlock is standing next to him, snorting impatiently while they wait for the laptop to boot.

To John’s surprise, the machine isn’t password protected. Sherlock urges him to lock into his email account. John has checked his phone, but found that the salt hasn’t saved it. Looking up at Sherlock he frowns. “You haven’t found your own phone, have you? Guess whoever found your coat has got it, unless they destroyed it. Is there a way to track it via GPS?”

Sherlock shakes his head, looking momentarily annoyed at himself. Then his attention is caught by the new emails listed in John’s inbox. There are two from Lestrade, one from Clara, and one from an official looking government address. John assumes that it’s Mycroft’s or one of his minions’, Anthea, perhaps.

They open Lestrade’s first. He complains about not being able to reach John, and John not replying to his text messages. He sounds friendlier in his second mail. Apparently, somebody has told him about their detour through the Thames. He wants to know whether they are all right, and assures them that they are currently reviewing the CCTV footage taken in Battersea to find out more about the cab that chased them. Apparently its license plate was a fake. There is some news on the ‘magpie’ car they pursued from Sunny Meadows. It’s registered in Manchester to one Sebastian Moran, a former army colonel who was dishonourably discharged from the armed forces because of smuggling activities he was allegedly involved in during his third tour of Afghanistan. After his return to Britain, writes Lestrade, Moran disappeared from the radar. It is thought he changed his identity with help from the London mob. So far, Scotland Yard has not been able to establish any connection to the mysterious Richard Brook or his brother, the wildlife photographer, Jim Brook. Both their identities appear to be valid. There is indeed a registered photographer going by that name, as well as a banker working in Canary Wharf who bears resemblance to Richard Brook.

John reads the email out to Sherlock, and when they reach the respective passage, they exchange a doubtful glance. “I still believe the two of them are one and the same bloke,” states John, and Sherlock agrees.

He snorts excitedly when his eyes fall on the picture attached to the message. It shows a tall, sporty looking man with short, blond hair wearing desert fatigues. He is standing next to an armoured car. Another picture, blurry and slightly pixelated shows his face in close-up. He looks eerily familiar.

“Holy shit," mutters John, “that’s Brook’s creepy companion, the tiger man.”

Sherlock leans in closer to study the picture, his mane falling onto John’s shoulder. He snickers thoughtfully.

“You don’t think so?” enquires John.

Sherlock nods and shakes his head at the same time. Stretching his neck even further, he dabs his tongue at the face of the man. John frowns, before he understands.

“His eyes are different. And his face, too, but not much. It’s narrower in the pictures, and his nose looks different, too.”

He looks up at Sherlock. “So he wasn’t a tiger turned human, was he? Rather a human with some added tiger, perhaps? The man you sensed in the stables and who ran away, do you think that was him? Moran? He was pretty fast.”

He scratches the back of his neck thoughtfully. “But on the other hand there was the video taken by the Romanians. Shit, I’m too tired to think clearly. Maybe you can make sense of it all.”

He looks at the photograph thoughtfully, before shaking himself to get rid of the disturbing images flooding his mind, of people morphing into large cats and vice versa. “Right, let’s have a look at the other mails, and then I’m going to reply to Lestrade. He seems really worried.”

Sherlock agrees. Clara’s message is brief. She also wonders about John’s silence. To his relief, no damage occurred at Sunny Meadows, although evidence of someone preparing to set fire to a part of the horse stable has been found. The local police are investigating.

John writes back immediately, expressing his relief that nobody got hurt and nothing damaged, and advising her to contact DI Lestrade, implying that he knows more about the potential suspects. John also mentions that his phone has died, suggesting she keep emailing him to maintain contact.

The last message is longer than the previous emails, its tone stern and reprimanding. Reading it, John no longer doubts it was written by Mycroft himself. The language reads like the Umbrella Man talks. He is slightly surprised that Sherlock’s interfering big brother hasn’t deemed their situation worthy of a visit yet, but he reasons that even Mycroft Holmes requires sleep at times, unless he is in a different country at the moment pulling the strings behind governments.

 

From: m.h.office@gov.co.uk

To: john.watson@yahoo.co.uk

 

_Dear Dr. Watson and Sherlock,_

_even though it is a relief to know you survived your little swim unharmed, there obviously is great need to remind you of the foolishness and indeed seriousness of your impulsive flight from Sunny Meadows, not to mention your very public journey to Baker Street. In the interest of your safety and to prevent the further compromising of our investigations, do please stay put until your pursuers have been identified. Otherwise, not only your lives might be in danger, but also the wellbeing of your associates, not to mention the secrecy and speedy proceeding of the investigation into Sherlock’s altered circumstances. The more public attention you cause, the lower our chances of solving Sherlock’s current predicament in a speedy and secretive manner will become. Let me stress, once again, that the circumstances of his transformation are still being looked into and remain highly complicated. So do try and stay out of trouble for the foreseeable future. Mrs. Hudson has been informed and will look after you. Also, your employer has been informed about you needing to takes the next few days off, Dr. Watson._

_You may be pleased to hear that we have also managed to find the individuals you accosted before your dive from Battersea Bridge. Messrs. Marku Petran and Costin Nicolescu and their friends have been very helpful in providing further information about their encounters with certain questionable individuals, such as the mysterious Mr. Brook, who we have reason to believe is associated with the international criminal organisation known to us as headed by one James Moriarty.”_

 

Sherlock makes an excited sound at the name. John wants to question him about it, but Sherlock urges him to read on.

 

_Detective Inspector Lestrade will forward what background detail we have yet been able to find about him and his companion to you. Messrs. Petran and Nicolescu and their associates are currently residing in police custody with their d’accord, after it has been explained to them that their lives may be in danger should they continue to sleep rough for the time being._

_As for the two of you, I know it galls you in particular, Sherlock, but do try and heed my warning. Do not leave your flat. I am out of the country at the moment, but will continue to closely monitor the proceeding investigation. DI Lestrade will keep you informed on all fronts. Do not, I repeat, do not venture out in an attempt to speed things up. It is inevitably bound to fail. Dr. Watson, I herewith charge you to keep an extra vigilant eye on my wayward brother. Lock him in, if required. Your new position is undoubtedly known to your enemies. Do not provide them with the opportunity to harm you._

_M._

 

Sherlock lets out a long, exasperated snort after John has finished reading. John looks up at him and rolls his eyes, smirking faintly. “He does put it on thick, doesn’t he? But then, I believe he truly is concerned about you. Even for him it doesn’t happen every day, his little brother getting turned into a horse.”

Sherlock snorts again. He looks frustrated. John didn’t like all the talk about staying put and waiting for others to further the investigation, too, but he agrees that Mycroft does have a point about the safety issue.

“We can’t do much more tonight, anyway, can we?” he reasons, reaching up to rub Sherlock’s muzzle in what he hopes is a calming gesture. Sherlock does indeed quieten his angry grumbling. He bows his head, gently pressing it into John’s touch. They stay like this for a while, far longer than John intended.

“I know it must be difficult for you,” he says quietly. “Being in this shape, unable to talk or communicate properly, dependent on me and a number of other people. And I don’t like being cooped up here, either. Still, let’s just wait what Lestrade has for us in the morning, yeah? And then we can also do a proper search of this flat. You weren’t just looking for your phone and laptop after we arrived, were you?”

Sherlock gazes at him steadily, then nods. “We’ll find it in the morning, you’ll see. For now, it’s back to bed for me. Want me to leave the laptop on for you? You can’t type, but I could plug in a mouse for you if you’ve got one and open a news site for you so you can click on articles. Oh, wait, what’s this? Is that the email account associated with your website? We completely forgot to check _your_ mails. Looks like you’ve got an unread message.”

He points at the small red number one next to the Thunderbird icon in the dock. Sherlock shuffles closer and nudges John’s arm. John clicks on the icon. The message was sent mere minutes ago.

 

From: theblackandwhitebirdie@gmail.com

To: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

 

_Greetings, Goldilocks,_

_tsk, tsk, pulling an all-nighter, are we? Don’t you and your cute little pet need your beauty sleep, especially after all the running and jumping and swimming? Do look after yourselves, will you. Because, Goldilocks, you have something of mine I want back. And I think I have something of yours, too. Why don’t we meet for a chat and a swap? Tomorrow at the ghost hour, at the snake lake. You may bring your pet, and I will bring mine. Nobody else. Because if you tell Big Brother or the Silver Fox, there will be no chat, and no swap, and you're going to stay a wee horsey forever. The clock’s ticking, did you know? What’s more, some of your and your pet’s little friends may find themselves in ... altered circumstances, too. Wonder what animalistic shape dear Mrs. Hudson will assume, or pet’s beloved sister. Or indeed pet himself. And sometimes, the transformation just goes wrong, you know. You should have seen the failed experiments …_

_So, my dear, do we have an accord? Let the birdie know.  
_

_( - >_

_/ )\_

_=/_ /_

_" "_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the format for this chapter's illustration to landscape, because the composition worked better this way.  
> 


	10. Experiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to everybody who commented or left kudos, and a particular thank you to [sheeponmars](http://sheeponmars.tumblr.com) who created a [beautiful illustration](http://sheeponmars.tumblr.com/post/133352856255/inktober-31-inspired-by-the-wonderful-fanfic-the) for this story. I'm really touched by this, because it's the first time somebody has drawn something inspired by any of my fanfics. Ususually it's the other way round, and I draw for other people's stories (and for my own).
> 
> You may have noticed that the chapter count has gone up by one. That's because I decided to divide this chapter into two as it was getting too long and I didn't want to rush the big showdown. That will happen in the next chapter, which is already partly written and will hopefully follow without a long delay.

“Fuck,” is John’s immediate reaction to the taunting email. Sherlock snorts before turning on the spot, the blanket sliding from his back, and beginning to pace the living room, making excited noises to himself.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” John wants to know, setting the laptop onto the coffee table and joining Sherlock in the middle of the room. “What does it mean? Sherlock, hey, hold still for a moment.”

He catches Sherlock head during a turn and holds it between both hands, looking at Sherlock imploringly. “Calm down, okay, and give me a chance to follow your leaps of intellect and understand what’s happening? This is from Brook, so much seems clear.”

Sherlock makes a violent noise at the mention of the name and shakes his head wildly. John frowns. “Not Brook, you mean? But who else?”

He thinks for a moment, before remembering Sherlock’s reaction to a name referred to by his brother. “Moriarty?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, then paws at the floor, pointing at the cryptic message with his head and swishing his tail excitedly.

John gazes at the bird icon, then back up at Sherlock. “They’re the same? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Jim Brook, Richard Brook, that Moriarty bloke ... they’re all one and the same person? The head of a crime syndicate?"

Sherlock nods again, and there is nothing vague or unsure about the confirmation. John lets out a low whistle. “You’ve been on his trail for a while now, haven’t you? Or perhaps delivered some of his minions into prison? That’s why he’s so interested in you personally, and so gleefully delighted about your misfortune, if misfortune it is, being in this shape.”

Sherlock confirms this, too. John bites his lower lip as he thinks about the wording of the email.

“He wants to meet, just us and him and Moran, I take it,” he translates the taunting words, and subsequently snorts contemptuously. “As if he’d ever honour an agreement such as this. I’m sure he’d arrive with a small army of his henchmen hidden in the trees. As for the meeting place ... ‘ghost hour’ must mean midnight. And the ‘snake lake’? The Serpentine down in Hyde Park? Or is there a lake or pond called Snake Lake in London? Or does he mean the Zoo?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Right, okay, so you also think he means the Serpentine.” A nod.

John rubs the back of his own neck as he considers the rest of the cryptic message. Sherlock paws at the carpet in frustration and flicks his tail like a whip. “What does he want from you, Sherlock?” asks John, gazing at him with a frown. “He mentioned something about you staying in this state forever, and about time running out. Does that mean that after a while, your transformation will become permanent? How would he know that? And if he knows so much about these things, perhaps because he pulls the strings behind scientists like Wickham, what do you have, or have discovered, that he needs?”

Sherlock looks at John solemnly. Then he sets off in the direction of the laptop, with his head motioning to John to follow him. John sits down on the sofa again and picks up the computer, gazing up at Sherlock questioningly as he awaits instructions.

Sherlock leans in closely and noses at the ‘sent’ folder of his email account. John clicks on it. The first few mails he sees are the ones he has sent on Sherlock’s behalf. Then there is a bit of a gap in the dates, followed by one mail without disclosed recipient and without subject header. It does contain an attachment, however. John opens the email. It has no text. The attachment consists of two blurry photographs, one of which seems not to have loaded completely. It goes blank and grey in the middle. The mail looks like it has been sent in an absolute hurry with a weak or unstable internet connection.

John looks up at Sherlock who has leaned in to squint at the pictures. Blurry and grainy, they were obviously taken in low light and seem to show pages from a notebook or folder. John makes out scrawled handwriting and what look like chemical formulae.

“Did you take them?” enquires John. Sherlock nods.

John frowns at the photos. “But they’re not your handwriting, right? Okay. Who wrote them, and why did you have to snap pictures in such a hurry? Oh, wait, this bit here looks like a reflection. You took the shots through a window, right? At Wickham’s flat?” Sherlock confirms this.

“So they’re linked to her research? But her flat was searched by the police, wasn’t it? Surely they would have looked for stuff like that and taken her notes. Unless ... when you were at the flat, you weren’t alone. Was Moriarty there, too? Or some of his people? You were in a hurry? Why?”

He reaches up and rubs Sherlock’s muzzle. “Try and remember, Sherlock.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and draws a few deeps breaths. John watches him raptly, wondering what goes on in that brilliant mind. But then Sherlock lets out a loud, frustrated snort and shakes his mane violently, stomping his forehoof onto the wooden floorboards.

John sighs. “You can’t remember, can you,” he states, “because you were transformed immediately afterwards. Shit. Still, you somehow managed to take these photos and ... who did you email them to? Yourself? But the mail wasn’t in your inbox.”

Sherlock shakes his head again and paws the floor. “Ah,” continues John, “someone got hold of your phone, didn’t they. Likely those who transformed you, perhaps by shooting you with a dart like the did with Potter and then searching your clothes. Guess they were more or less destroyed, too, when you transformed inside them. By the way, did you take off your coat and scarf beforehand so that they’d remain undamaged.”

Sherlock gives him an irritated look but then nods.

John smiles wryly. “You really love that coat, don’t you? Anyway, so you went to Wickham’s place, likely because you’d somehow learned about her research or were trying to find her after her disappearance. You tried to get in, perhaps even got into her flat, and then ... you got company, didn’t you? Did you overhear anything they said? No? So they were looking for her research, but not sure what exactly. But you, you suddenly had an idea. You were hiding somewhere, and then spotted her notes and secretly took the photos. But you couldn’t get away, not without them spotting you. Or perhaps you’d already been found out and you bolted. You mailed the photos to yourself, not knowing whether you were going to get caught. You expected to be captured and your phone taken from you, and maybe wiped. But you didn’t expect to be hit by a dart and turned into an animal. Or did you?”

Sherlock has ceased his restless shuffling and frustrated snuffling and is staring at John with wide eyes full of admiration. He nods slowly, before planting a brief, wet lick across John’s cheek. John swats at his nose in half-hearted protest, but laughs all the same. “Is that to tell me that I’ve just been brilliant?”

Sherlock nods, casting down his eyes in what looks like embarrassment. John chuckles. “Thank you, Sherlock. But now I think we’ll be needing your exceptional brain again to determine what’s so special about these notes and formulae you photographed. Is this what Moriarty is after? And if yes, and he got hold of your phone, wouldn’t he have seen the email if he managed to break into your account? Or ... wait. It wouldn’t show up in your inbox, would it? I’ve tried sending mails to myself from the same address, and they didn’t get through. They did, however, show up in my sent folder. Is that what you did?”

Sherlock nods again. John licks his lips excitedly. “Moriarty mentioned something about experiments and transformations having gone wrong. And Mycroft said his scientists were still working on trying to find and reconstruct the transformative agent from your blood and tissue samples, and from those of the other victims. Would these notes be something they need to be successful? They’re barely legible on these photos, and there’s a good deal missing from this one formula. What’s it even supposed to be? Some kind of amino acid?”

Sherlock confirms, then shrugs. He stands still for a moment, apparently deep in thought, then wanders off in the direction of the kitchen where he begins to pull out drawers with his teeth and then proceed to open the cupboards. John hears things fall out and shatter on the floor. He grabs the laptop and follows Sherlock, to find him standing at the sink with broken glass and crockery at his feet. He neighs in frustration. John deposits the laptop on the table and steps over to him, raising both hands in a soothing gesture.

“Sherlock, easy, okay. I know this must be difficult, but we need to proceed calmly. What are you looking for?”

Sherlock points at the laptop screen with his muzzle, and swishes his tail impatiently. John is confused. “What?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then makes a motion as if to write with his mouth. “Notes? Your own notes?” John wants to know. “You’re looking for those?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically, brushing past John to descend on his desk and push books, pens and papers around forcefully, only to neigh again and turn, glowering at John accusingly when apparently he cannot find what he has been looking for. John raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I didn’t touch anything. But ... don’t know. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson did a spot of tidying while you were away. The flat certainly looks like it needs rather more of that.”

Sherlock whinnies and positively leaps towards the stairs. John dashes after him. “Are you out of your bloody mind?” he hisses, grabbing Sherlock’s tail to hold him back and prevent him from lumbering down the steps.

“It’s the middle of the bleeding night, Sherlock. You can’t show up in your landlady’s bedroom and wake her, just because you want to ask about the disappearance of some of your papers. That’d be more than a bit not good even if you were human-shaped. What do you think she’ll do when she rouses, only to see a huge dark shape loom in her bedroom. Knowing her, she’d likely bang you round the ears with the bedside lamp. And you’d deserve it.”

Sherlock struggles for a bit – not that John could truly hold him back like this –, but then relents, already half way down the stairs. He slumps against the wall and snorts angrily, his head drooping. John lets out a sigh of relief. “Come back up, you daftie. If you can ... yeah, that’s it. Walk backwards. Okay. Listen, these papers, are they really so very important?”

Sherlock nods emphatically. John bites his lip. “Okay. I ... erm ... I’ll see what I can do. Do you remember where you left them? The desk? No? The kitchen table? Right. And it definitely can’t wait until the morning?”

Sherlock shakes his head and nudges him. He draws a deep breath, gazing down the dark staircase and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hope she won’t attack  _ me  _ with the lamp.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Mrs. Hudson, to his great relief, is already awake and actually comes towards him in the hallway, wrapped in her terrycloth gown over her nightshirt. John rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry for waking you, Mrs. Hudson. Guess we made a up of a ruckus up there.”

She waves a hand. “It’s all right, dear, I wasn’t sleeping very well, anyway. I kept thinking about poor Sherlock. He is all right, isn’t he? I mean, despite the ...?” She waves her hand.

John nods evasively while upstairs, he can hear the heavy tread of Sherlock’s hooves on the wooden floorboards as he paces impatiently. “Yeah, he’s just a bit upset. We were looking for some of his notes. He thinks he left them on the kitchen table before ... before he was transformed. Do you remember seeing anything there? Did you tidy up a bit, perhaps, and put them somewhere else?”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widen and she claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, yes. He had some kind of chemical experiment set up, but when he didn’t return and I was told he was ill and going to stay away for a bit, I cleared it away. It was starting to smell rather badly, you see. He had also left all kinds of rubbish on the table and in the fridge. Some looked like animal parts. Nasty stuff. I threw them out, too. He may be a genius, Sherlock, but he’s not the tidiest of tenants, you must know. Without me looking after the place now and again, it’d be a complete and utter skip. I’m not squeamish, mind, but some things go to far.” She shakes her head in disgust. “In the kitchen, too, where normal people prepare and eat their food.”

“I completely understand you there, Mrs. Hudson,” John agrees to interrupt her squall of words. “But about the papers ... they were really important. So if you remember anything about notes, a notebook, scraps and bits of paper, or post-its ...”

She thinks for a moment. “There were all kinds of bits and bobs. Papers, too, of course. I don’t remember any notebook, though. But as for the papers, I think I put them in the recycling bin.”

John lets out an excited breath. “Do you know whether that’s been emptied in the interim?”

She shakes her head. “It will be collected tomorrow – or today, in fact, as it’s already morning. Or perhaps they’ve already been round. They tend to come very early in the mornings when the roads are clear for a change.”

“Shit,” mutters John. “Did you put the bags outside on the pavement?” She nods, and John dashes to the front door, only to find it locked. Mrs. Hudson comes and unlocks it. Outside, in front of the café, John spots several bags and begins to heave them all inside.

“Sorry for the mess, Mrs. Hudson. I promise I’ll clear it up again later. But now we must look for those notes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock descends upon John and the bags with an excited snort. The next hour sees them in the kitchen poring over the contents of 221A’s and 221B’s recycling waste, with Sherlock standing behind John and eyeing every item the vet retrieves from the bags with critical eyes. It’s tedious and rather smelly work, and John grinds his teeth over the task. But at length, they find several scraps of paper covered in Sherlock’s spidery handwriting. They’re shop receipts, the edge of a newspaper ad, the back of a flyer advertising a chamber music concert down at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and even what seems like half a roll of toilet paper. On them has been scrawled what looks like formulae, mathematical calculations and chemical equations.

John places them on the counter where Sherlock peruses them closely before beginning to push them around, apparently to try and establish some kind of order. He appears to be counting them, too.

“Anything missing?” asks John when he has sifted through all the bags.

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, before hesitantly, he shakes his head. Packing the bags again, John brings them outside, just in time to have them collected.

Returning upstairs, he finds that Sherlock has brought his notes over to the table and stands poring over them. John quickly washes his hand and then joins him. “Erm, Sherlock, is there anything I can help you with here? Some of the notes are quite damaged and barely legible. Want me to copy them, write them out neatly?”

Sherlock nods. “Okay. This research, the chemical substance that is depicted on there – and its derivates – is this the stuff that caused your transformation? No? Not sure? Okay. Still, why does Moriarty want it? I mean, he’s already got a working version of the serum. What does he need your research for?”

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound, then goes and fetches a pencil from the desk in the living room and begins to scrawl letters onto the kitchen table. STABLE, reads John. Sherlock crosses out the word and points at his notes. John looks at him.

“It’s not stable? Is that what this means? But you’ve been a horse for weeks now, and there haven’t been any changes to your condition. Or are you referring to the substance itself, meaning that it won’t keep for long? No? The former, then? Both?”

Sherlock nods. He writes again, ANTIDOTE? this time, which he strikes out, too, to then point at the first word, and then at himself. John frowns at him, licking his lips.

“Sherlock, I’m not quite sure I understand you here. Let me try and get this straight. So somehow, you came across this research, likely in connection with Wickham’s disappearance. Being a chemist yourself, you looked into the matter, and found several flaws in the formula which you thought you could improve or correct. Perhaps you didn’t even know what properties it had exactly, it just looked ... fishy, yeah? Hey, okay, apologies for the pun. You somehow found out, perhaps through your experiments, that whatever Wickham was working on, it had the potential of turning people into animals. Different kinds of animals, too. That’s why you experimented with animal parts. Mrs. Hudson complained about those – kudos to her for being conscientious about recycling waste, by the way, and not chucking out the paper with the rest of the stuff she encountered in your kitchen. That would’ve been even less fun to sort through.

“So you discovered various things about the substance, and you had this suspicion about Wickham’s absence, too. You expected her to have been turned into an animal, either because she had done it herself, as a field trial, maybe, because she had been getting desperate, or that it had been done to her by people interested in her discovery. Okay. But you noticed there were several issues with the serum and its properties, likely to do with its stability. Guess it also had unpleasant effects on the tissue samples you used in your experiments. I wager some showed nasty mutations and didn’t return to their original state after the agent had worn off. Also, knowing you, I think you were trying to find an antidote, or at least a remedy for the faults inherent in the mixture. You believed Wickham might have already managed to synthesise something along the lines, or at least have done the research. That’s why you returned to her flat where you took the pictures of her notebook, only to be spotted by Moriarty’s people who were also looking for her papers and computer accounts – and maybe yours, too –, and getting transformed yourself.”

John gazes at him. “Why haven’t you returned to your original state, Sherlock?” He cocks his head as he studies his equine friend. Sherlock holds his gaze, returns it steadily. He looks almost defiant, thinks John. And then it dawns on him. John draws a deep breath.

“You knew somebody was after Wickham’s research, perhaps because they’d been on to you as well. You knew, and I guess you suspected that should you show up at her flat, they’d be waiting for you. Likely you’d not come across Moriarty himself or you’d have recognised him, but you were aware of his people. But of course you went anyway, and of course without informing anybody. Your brother, for example, or Lestrade.

Sherlock makes a questioning grunting noise, as if to ask why he’d do anything this stupid. John shakes his head and points an accusing finger at him. “Because you’re a bloody idiot. A reckless fool, that’s what you are. That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Swanning around doing reckless, dangerous stuff to prove you’re clever.”

Sherlock snorts and nudges John’s shoulder with his head. John laughs wryly and reaches out to rub his forehead. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Touché. I’m the same, only less smart.”

His eyes narrow as he watches Sherlock. “But with Wickham, you got it wrong, didn’t you? You thought you went there prepared – and you did. You ... God, Sherlock, did you manage to synthesise the antidote, or what you thought the antidote was?”

Sherlock’s gaze is answer enough. Excitedly, John continues, beginning to pace and talk animatedly. Finally, some things are falling into place, and some of his more persisting questions concerning Sherlock and his transformation are getting answered.

“Right, okay. So you went to Wickham’s flat, perhaps hoping to find her or at least some of her research, and you brought along what you’d brewed up in your kitchen and what you thought might be the antidote, or an improvement to Wickham’s formula. Did you hope to consult her about it? Right. But of course she wasn’t there. Those other people were. Don’t you remember anything that happened when you encountered them?”

Sherlock looks thoughtful but uncertain. Eventually, he picks up the pencil with his teeth and points it at his flank. John steps to him and lightly runs his hand over the warm coat. “They shot you with a dart, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Sherlock thinks some more, before nodding once. He still looks unsure, but John thinks this to have been the likeliest course of events. Noticing that he’s still stroking Sherlock’s flank absently, he withdraws his hand and takes a step back, clearing his throat. Sherlock gives him a strange, long look before lifting his head and shaking his forelock out of his eyes as if to clear his mind.

“Okay, so they shot you, and you were beginning to feel the transformation set in, didn’t you? Not sure why you were turned into a horse, but that’s something to ask Moriarty and his goons, perhaps. But you knew what was happening to you, and then ...”

John stares at him fascination, even admiration, and sheer disbelief. “You took your own stuff, didn’t you – right after shedding your beloved coat and scarf? What you thought was the antidote, to counteract the agent, you took. Injected yourself, or swallowed it or whatever. Only ... it didn’t work. Because you hadn’t invented and synthesised an antidote, but a substance that stabilises the effect of the transformation serum. Instead of stopping or reversing the transformation, you managed to make it permanent. Shit, Sherlock. That’s ... Well, I guess in the end you were rather lucky. Imagine what might have happened had you imbibed or injected yourself with an antidote that only worked partially. You could have ended up half man half horse, or worse. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s what happened to Jim’s uncanny companion, Moran, the tiger man. Sherlock ... hey, are you still with me? You looked quite absent right now. Hope I didn’t insult you with my deduction.”

Sherlock makes a startled noise and shakes his head. Then he picks up the pencil again and writes CORRECT onto the table. Then, to John’s surprise and amusement, he draws a wobbly smiley face underneath.

John grins, then lets out a long breath. Drawing up one of the chairs, he sinks onto it and runs both hands over his face and through his hair. “Right, so far, so good. But what are we going to do now?” He gazes up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock snorts. He stands for a moment looking thoughtfully at the scratched surface of the table, then suddenly he sets out and begins to walk round it – as best he can in the narrow kitchen. Remains of the broken glassware and crockery that John hasn’t managed to clear away crunch under his hooves. John watches him with both amusement and faint apprehension. He recalls Mycroft’s warning not to leave the flat under any circumstances. He also knows that neither of them is likely to heed it, not with an invitation like Moriarty’s, addressed at two men who are alike in their disregard for personal safety and their fascination with, even requirement of, dangerous, reckless pursuits. Despite the peril inherent in the encounter, John knows he wants to go and meet Moriarty. Safety be damned. But then, this is not just about him. He’s just the ‘pet’, as Jim has pointed out repeatedly. No, this is mostly about Sherlock, for whom far more is at stake here than for John. Moriarty is not going to play fair, they are both aware of that. They may be playing into his hands by agreeing to meet him, and on his terms as well. But the alternative would be to stay in the flat and wait for Sherlock’s brother and Scotland Yard to sort things out, and this idea doesn’t sit right with John at all.

He turns to Sherlock who is squeezing past his chair in his third circuit round the table. “We haven’t replied to Moriaty yet,” points out John.

Sherlock stops. He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. John watches him. “You want to go and meet him, right? And you want to try and trick him into ... what? Exchanging a working antidote with what you’ve found out and he’s after?”

Sherlock nods slowly. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before with a snort he leaps forward and descends upon the pencil again. With two forceful strokes that leave deep grooves in the battered surface he crosses out the word ANTIDOTE that he scribbled earlier. John frowns, first at the word, then at him.

“What do you mean, Sherlock? That he hasn’t got the antidote?”

Sherlock nods vaguely but proceeds to strike through the word once more for emphasis. John watches him, until a thought dawns on him. “There is no antidote, is there?” he ventures.

Sherlock nods emphatically. John rises from the chair and stands next to him, laying a hand on his neck and feeling his fast, excited heartbeat. “I think I get it now. So far, all those transformed by the serum have morphed back on their own after a while – or not, in Potters case, unless a transformation took place post mortem. Perhaps Wickham was working on something to stabilise it but was transformed and then died before she could complete her research. But you found how to stabilise it, didn’t you? And Moriarty ... Perhaps he has something to counteract that. To return the substance you modified to its original state so that, with luck, the effect would wear off again. I mean, both substances would be good to have. You could switch off and on the effect, so to say, turn people into beasts for as long as you want to, and change them back, too, whenever it suits you. Maybe you’d just need more of the original transformative agent to overcome the effect of the stabiliser.”

Sherlock nods excitedly, rubbing his head against John’s side. John pats his neck. “So, what do we do now? Try and synthesise another dose of your substance?”

Sherlock whinnies. John shakes his head and scuffs a hand through his hair.

“Really? In here, in your kitchen? Sherlock, that’s mental?”

Sherlock whinnies again and nudges John, crowding him against the table. John swats at his nose, knowing that he isn’t really protesting, excited as he is by the entire set up.

“Meaning I’m supposed to do all the work? Sherlock, I’m not a chemist. Listen, I know you’re not best friends with your brother, but he needs to be informed about all this. Okay, yes, we can try and cook something up in here, as long as it’s neither toxic nor explosive. Or radioactive. Or highly corrosive. But we need to keep him and his scientists in the loop about this. They’re on our side, remember. And they’ve got the better laboratory and equipment, and access to more and likely better quality chemicals. Do you even have everything we need in here?”

Sherlock steps back and turns to pull open some more cupboards and then the fridge, apparently taking stock of his makeshift laboratory. Eventually, he nods, looking at John imploringly. John sighs.

“I’m going to copy your notes first, and mail them to your brother. Also, what do we do about Moriarty?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then wanders off into the living room to peruse the book cases. It takes him a while to find what he’s looking for, and some fiddling with his muzzle to get hold of a book on one of the upper shelves. Books clatter to the floor when he finally pulls it out.

Back in the kitchen, he drops it on the table. It’s the  _ London A to Z _ , John recognises. Sherlock noses at it until he manages to open it, then leafs through it with his tongue. Eventually, he reaches a map showing Baker Street and nearby Regent’s Park, at which he points, looking at John expectantly. John frowns. 

“That’s not the Snake Lake, is it?” points out John, gazing at the Boating Lake in the park. Sherlock shakes his head and snorts. John thinks he understands.

“Oh, you want to meet Moriarty there? Right. Actually, that’s a good idea, because it saves us from having to tramp down all the way to Hyde Park again. This is just round the corner. I’ll reply to him then, shall I? Midnight still good?” Sherlock nods.

As he types out the email, John tries to keep his taunts at a bare minimum, resisting the temptation to pay Moriarty back for his cryptic message. He simply agrees to meet at all, reinforces the need for privacy, and suggests a change of location due to the fact that he cannot promise they’ll make it down to the Serpentine without ‘Big Brother’ noticing and interfering. As a new venue, he picks the bandstand in Regent’s Park instead. He clicks ‘send’, and only about a minute later receives a reply that only consists of a happy (evil) smiley face.  _ Right, challenge accepted, then,  _ thinks John grimly.

Leaning back in his chair, he lets out a long breath. “I need some tea,” he mutters. Sherlock makes a strange, longing sound. John reaches up to rub his muzzle. “You, too, eh? Well, I don’t see how a sip could possibly hurt. Just drink some water afterwards. I’ll make you that cuppa – or bowl, rather, and afterwards I’d better get washed and ready. Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any more sleep tonight.” He glances at the time displayed on the laptop. It’s a quarter to six.

With sigh, he rises from the chair, yawns and stretches, before shuffling over to the kettle to fill it and switch it on. It feels surprisingly natural to move about in Sherlock’s cluttered kitchen, and once again John wonders what is going to happen once Sherlock has returned to his human form. Are they going to stay in contact? Is Sherlock going to remember him and their time together at all? John gives him a glance from the corner of his eyes, to find Sherlock watching him with a grave but otherwise unreadable expression. John has an inkling he has been thinking along the same lines.

Clearing his throat, “I’ll pop into the bathroom, okay,” he tells Sherlock. “Be back in a moment.”

Sherlock nods. John can feel his eyes linger on his back until he closes the bathroom door behind him.

 

**- <o>-**

 

A short while later, John is laboriously typing out Sherlock’s scrawled notes with Sherlock instructing him about their order and correcting him with snorts and snickers between noisy slurps of milky tea from a large breakfast bowl. Sherlock insisted on the milk, and in the end John relented and added a splash to his friend’s brew. Sherlock seems happy with his drink. John assumes he has really missed his tea.

Writing up the notes to Sherlock’s satisfaction takes time. It’s light outside when they are finished. Footsteps on the stairs announce Mrs. Hudson’s arrival. She is carrying a tray with breakfast: eggs, beans, tomato and mushrooms for John, porridge for Sherlock, and toast for both. She tells John that his clothes have been washed but aren’t entirely dry yet, after taking in his current outfit which still consists of the borrowed clothes he slept in under Sherlock’s blue silk dressing gown.

John thanks her profusely while Sherlock descends on his porridge greedily. Because she makes no move to leave again, John humours her by giving her a short and rather edited account of what befell Sherlock, how they met, and how he has spent the past few weeks as a horse. She is less shocked than John anticipated.

“But he can be turned back, can’t he?” she asks at length, looking up at her tenant with large, sorrowful eyes.

John sighs softly. “We hope so. Many brilliant scientists are working on finding a solution right now.” He gives Sherlock an appreciative glance as he speaks, which earns him a low snicker.

“Sherlock himself did some research before he was transformed. That’s why we needed his notes so badly. Apologies again for waking you last night, Mrs. Hudson.”

She waves a hand. “Did you find them?” she wants to know. John nods. Sherlock snorts impatiently. John glances up at him and smiles wryly. “I think Sherlock wants to get back to work.”

Mrs. Hudson rises and stacks their used plates and bowls on her tray. “Of course. I won’t keep you if you’re busy. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll make you some salad for lunch, all right? You eat salad, don’t you, Sherlock?”

The addressed snorts derisively. John laughs. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Salad will be fine. He will eat what he’s given.

 

**- <o>-**

 

It takes John almost an hour to set up a makeshift laboratory on the kitchen table. Sherlock guides him with grunts, snorts, shakes of head and nods, and the occasional scribbled instruction or gentle nudge or shove. John is surprised by Sherlock’s patience. Despite the slow progress, Sherlock seems rather excited than frustrated, and highly concentrated on the task. John is rather more apprehensive of what they’re doing. He has a working knowledge of basic chemistry, but nowhere near Sherlock’s expertise, meaning he’ll have to trust him to not blow up the flat with what they’re setting up.

When Sherlock instructs him to fetch chemicals from various cupboards (where they stand amidst tea-bags and spices and canned foods), he eyes the labels suspiciously and not without worry. A fair number of the substances he pulls from their various hiding places are either toxic, corrosive or otherwise unpleasant and potentially dangerous.

Gingerly placing the various containers, bottles and flasks on the table and the nearby counter, John gives Sherlock a stern look. “I’m not handling any of these without gloves and protective googles. Got those anywhere?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and nods at a drawer. John finds what he is looking for any arrays himself in protective gear. He finds two rather threadbare looking but fire- and acid-proof aprons hanging from hooks near the window. One he uses for himself, the other he slings round Sherlock’s neck and ties it on his withers. He looks utterly ridiculous, and rather surprised at the gesture, too, but endures addition without comment. Catching his dim reflection in the kitchen window, John shakes his head. “I must be completely out of my mind,” he mutters, while at the same time feeling a frisson of excitement run through him. This is going to be dangerous, potentially. And he loves it. Turning to Sherlock, he inclines his head.

“Right, what do you want me to do?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Apart from setting off the smoke alarm once, and that only because Sherlock singes a strand of his forelock by leaning too closely over the Bunsen burner, they manage to not blow up the kitchen or themselves by the time Mrs. Hudson arrives with lunch at around one o’clock. She is accompanied by DI Lestrade, who can’t resist snapping a picture of the duo as they stand in front of the kitchen table, John in full ‘mad scientist’ attire, and Sherlock filling more than half the doorway with his massive dark form accentuated by a bright yellow apron covering his broad chest.

Mrs. Hudson takes one glance at the cluttered table, sniffs the air that still reeks of singed horse despite the open windows, and tuts as she retreats to the living room where she deposits the lunch tray, to then quickly flee the danger zone again.

Lestrade steps closer, shaking his head and grinning. “You two are having the time of your lives, eh?” he comments. “First yesterday’s adventurous trip through London and daring escape into the bloody river, and now you’re cooking up weird chemicals in a flat. This almost feels like an episode of  _ Breaking Bad. _ ”

John and Sherlock exchange a glance. Sherlock begins to snicker, and John to laugh, because Lestrade is right. John has never felt so alive before, and Sherlock seems to share the sentiment.

“We’re trying to further Sherlock’s research into the transformative substance,” explains John after they’ve calmed down again. “Do you have any news on Moran and Moriarty?”

Lestrade holds up a file. “There isn’t much on Moran that isn’t classified stuff from his army days. We’re still trying to acquire that, but the MoD is being difficult – and yes, I’ve already forwarded this issue to Mr. Holmes and his team, so hopefully he can pull some strings to get us the info we need. We do believe, however, because all evidence points that way, that Moran was responsible for the break-in and fire at Sunny Meadows yesterday. The man himself disappeared off the radar some weeks ago until he popped up here in London again. There is some indication that he went abroad, left the country for a while. Manchester Police are on the case as well, and we may need to involve Interpol. He’s not a nice chap, Moran.”

“So much we’ve gathered,” says John darkly. “Have you got anything else?”

Lestrade nods. “Yeah. We found several photos of Richard Brook and his brother, Jim. Together. So they’re not one and the same person, as you assumed.”

He retrieves several internet print-outs from the file and places them on the table. Sherlock takes one keen glance at them, snickers and points towards the laptop that sits somewhat precariously on the arm of the patterned armchair which John has turned around so that it faces the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” asks John.

Sherlock indicates the computer again, rolls his eyes and snorts. John shrugs, taking another look at the print-outs. And then he sees it, too, and he smiles at Sherlock. “They’re photoshopped, right? Quite skilfully, but still manipulated. But in this one, the lighting is slightly wrong.” He holds it up to Lestrade who peruses it, then nods, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, I think you’re right. They were taken from the wildlife photographer’s Instagram page. I’ll have my team look at the original image files again. So you’re still convinced those two are one and the same person?”

“Yes. And Sherlock believes, and so, in fact, does his brother, that Brook is in truth a criminal named Moriarty.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrow at the mention. “I’ve heard that name before, but it always seemed nothing substantial, more like a code or something, a password, something that was whispered in certain criminal circles. Still, it gives me and my team something else to look into. Thanks, chaps. You really are a brilliant team. I mean that. So far, nobody has been able to keep up with Sherlock, and he tolerated nobody long enough to stay around. You must be pretty special, John.”

John blushes. He catches Sherlock giving him another of his long, thoughtful glances and then quickly look away when he feels John’s eyes on him. As if to hide embarrassment, Sherlock nudges Lestrade.

“Yeah, all right, I’ve got more. Be patient, you maniac. The cab that pursued you has been identified. It belongs to a certain Jeffrey Hope. He was already quoted in that newspaper article about Sherlock’s dash down Baker Street. Perhaps you’ve read it. It was featured in the  _ Daily Mail _ . Hope himself has vanished, though. The car was found abandoned in the Chelsea area near Chelsea Embankment early this morning. Here’s what the bloke looks like.”

He rummages in his file before holding up a photograph of a middle-aged, grey-haired man in his fifties. He looks plain and unassuming. Sherlock shuffles closer and studies the photograph before with a snort, he returns to the kitchen table and picks up the pencil. John and Lestrade join him to see what he’s writing. He doesn’t write, however, but scrawls a picture.

“What’s that?” asks Lestrade with a frown, walking round the table to view the drawing from another angle. “Some kind of animal?”

John bends his neck to the side. “I think it’s supposed to be some kind of rodent. Oh, right. Sherlock, do you want to tell us that this cabbie, Hope, he’s been turned into an animal, too? To avoid capture, perhaps, or as a punishment because he failed to catch or kill us?”

Sherlock nods. Lestrade lets out a long breath that turns into a dry laugh. “Try and find a particular rodent in London. But I suppose he does look rather rat-like,” he adds with another glance at the photo. “Or a goat.”

Sherlock draws a wobbly circle round his rat picture and adds what looks like a clock. Lestrade gazes at him questioningly, then his eyes light up. “Okay, I think I get this. Hey, this is rather fun, this kind of riddle solving.”

Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. Lestrade pats his shoulder good-naturedly. “No offence, Sherlock. Let us mere mortals have our little moments of enlightenment, yeah? Right, so you want us to search in a radius a rat can cover in the past hours? Okay. But he could have run to the Thames and joined his comrades there, or hid in one of the parks and gardens. Or he hasn’t been turned into a rat after all.”

“If he really was transformed, his clothes must be somewhere near the cab,” puts in John. “So I’d suggest you have your team look for them, and if you find them, screen them for animal hairs like you did with Potter’s. We believe that the transformative agent as such isn’t stable. It may depend on the dose and the recipient’s constitution, as well as other factors, but it looks like people start to revert to their original shape after a while. Meaning Hope may already be human-shaped again.”

“Shit, that’s true,” says Lestrade. “Don’t know if I’ve told you, but the stag man you found, Potter? He slowly turned back post-mortem. Not entirely, that’s what Molly Hooper said, likely because decay had already set in and dissolved the serum or something like that. But the substance seems to have broken down almost entirely a few hours after his death. They were only able to find minute traces of it during the autopsy. Molly said the amount wouldn’t have been enough to transform him in the first place.”

John nods. “Sherlock’s research indicates that unless you add another component, you can’t keep up the transformation. Rather like that stuff from the  _ Harry Potter  _ books. Polyjuice Potion or how it’s called. It only lasts for about an hour, then you need to drink another dose. Wickham managed to stay a canine for a few days, but she may already have used a modified serum or topped up her dose at regular intervals. We believe she was researching it.”

Lestrade nods thoughtfully, before his eyes stray to Sherlock. “But how is it that you have stayed a horse for so long now? Must be weeks now.”

Sherlock inclines his head and then points his muzzle at the laboratory on the table. Lestrade draws in a sharp breath. “You mean you found out how to stabilise this shit?”

Sherlock’s shoulder ripples in a shrug. “It seems so. His memories are somewhat sketchy – perhaps deliberately so,” he adds with a quick glance at Sherlock. “We’re trying to reconstruct this component based on Sherlock’s initial research,” explains John. “Hence my outfit and this whole set-up here.”

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair. “Well, chaps, I don’t want to keep you in that case. Just try not to blow yourselves up, all right, or turn into anything nasty. I’ll tell my team to look out for Hope, rodent-shaped or human. I’ll keep you in the loop. Oh, by the way, I got something for you, John. Guess your phone didn’t survive your swim in the Thames. Regards from your brother, Sherlock. He had it sent to me. Look after it, okay. And don’t do anything stupid, you two. I have to stress this – and don’t you dare roll your eyes, Sherlock –, because I know you.”

He stabs his finger into Sherlock’s flank, making him squirm.

“And you, John, forgive me for saying so, you appear to be just as reckless as this fellow here. Right, I must be off. Do contact me if you need or find anything. And don’t leave the flat. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s news.”

Stripping off his gloves, John receives a box containing a brand new iPhone. Sherlock sniffs at it (to John it smells the way a new Apple product does) and snorts derisively, turning back to their experiment.

“You can sniff and snort as much as you like, Sherlock,” comments Lestrade, “but I for one am relieved to know that you can be reached again – and tracked, too. If you try to disable the GPS tracker, I’m to remind you that you’ll call the cavalry upon you right away. So do try and behave.”

Lestrade takes his leave, and John coaxes Sherlock into the living room to eat a bite. Sherlock seems unenthusiastic about the salad, but he eats some of it and demands more tea. John makes him a watery brew with only a tiny splash of milk, but Sherlock seems content. After their meal, John makes the mistake of leaning back into the sofa cushions. The exhaustion of the past days and the fact he has barely slept the previous night catch up with him with the speed of a TGV and he promptly dozes off.

He wakes to golden afternoon light slanting through the large living room windows. A blanket has been draped over him, the same, he notes, he used to cover Sherlock with the previous night. Sherlock himself is standing at his desk, reading in what looks like an old chemistry book. John watches him drowsily while warmth spreads through him. Sherlock’s ears twitch to him and he makes a low, rumbling sound in his throat.

John rubs his eyes and sits up straight. “Sorry for dozing off. Thanks for the blanket, though.” Carefully, he rises and stretches, his joints popping. His sore throat from the previous night hasn’t made another appearance for which he is grateful, still, he thinks he can feel parts of his body he didn’t even know existed.

“Right, let’s get back to the experiment, shall we?”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Almost five hours later, Sherlock seems both excited and frustrated as he paces the living room, having abandoned the narrow confines of the kitchen. John watches him from where he is leaning against the counter, sipping what seems like his tenth cup of tea for today.

John has no idea if they’ve been making any progress. They’ve synthesised a number of substances, which are now contained in a row of stoppered test tubes sitting on the counter. To John they all look alike, but Sherlock seems convinced of their different properties. If any of them even comes close to what he wanted to concoct, John has no idea. So far, they haven’t tested any of them, and John is not certain how they possibly could ascertain which one is working and which one is potentially toxic. Still, to his great relief he has neither had to use the fire-extinguisher nor any other protective equipment. The kitchen looks no more like a dump than it did previously, and Sherlock hasn’t singed off any more hair. Therefore, John counts their experiments a success. Indeed, he is rather pleased with himself that they managed to produce anything that meets with Sherlock’s approval at all, considering how challenging their work has been in terms of communication and practical application.

Sherlock has made him document each subsequent experiment minutely, and he has forwarded his accounts to Anthea, instructing her to pass on his documentations to Mycroft’s scientists and Molly Hooper.

Mrs. Hudson has just been round to bring his laundered clothes and a bite for dinner. John doesn’t feel particularly hungry. A knot of tense excitement and apprehension has settled in his stomach. Midnight is only about three hours away. Outside, dusk is falling. The street lamps on Baker Street have just been lit. John can tell that Sherlock is getting restless, too, now that they have to wait for Anthea or Molly to get back to them.

There has been word from Lestrade, at least. Hope’s clothes have been found, hidden in a small park close to where his cab was parked. The search for animal hairs has been successful, too, and it turns out Sherlock has been right about the rodent as well. Hope was transformed into a muskrat. A blow-gun dart similar to the one used to transform Potter was found amidst the clothes, containing the usual serum, but with muskrat DNA instead of red deer genes as were found in Potter’s dart.  _ Polyjuice Potion,  _ thinks John, feeling once more caught in a fantasy tale. 

Which brings him back to considering the villain of the piece. Apart from agreeing to meet Moriarty, Sherlock and he haven’t actually communicated about what to do once they are face to face with their enemy. John has no doubt that he is going to try and trick them. He appears to be particularly interested in Sherlock’s downfall, so much is clear. Many of his actions towards Sherlock indicate a personal vendetta.

John looks up to find Sherlock watching him. “You’re going to wear grooves into Mrs. Hudson’s floor with your incessant pacing,” John tells him, “but I understand your impatience. I’m feeling it, too. How about we set out as soon as it’s fully dark and head up to Regent’s Park. I’d imagine you’d need to relieve yourself at some point, and you can pace better on grass than in here. Also, we can suss out the location, to prevent Moriarty’s minions settling down near the bandstand. If you’re still eager to go at all, that is. We could easily inform your brother and Lestrade and have them deal with Moriarty, or Brook, or whoever awaits us at midnight.”

Sherlock lowers his head and gives John a beady glare that’s very vocal about John’s latter suggestion. John sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his heart beating excitedly. “All right. I’ll get changed, then.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

They slip into the park in a way that John hopes is unrecorded by CCTV. The two joggers and one dog-walker they encounter appear completely uninterested in them. To keep up appearances while they are out in public, John has constructed a makeshift headcollar out of bits of rope he found in Sherlock’s kitchen. He unties it as soon as they have passed the gates of the park and have withdrawn into the leafy shadows of a small grove. Something glowing in bright colours is passing on a nearby path, and John lets out a small laugh when he notices that it’s another dog walker, their canine adorned with a glow-in-the-dark collar and lead. John nudges Sherlock’s shoulder playfully.

“Should’ve gotten you one of those,” he jokes softly, to ease the tension that has settled on them ever since they left the flat. Sherlock shakes his mane and snorts. John reaches up to rub his muzzle, noticing how natural the gesture has become. He’d never do it if Sherlock were human, of course, and the realisation makes him swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. However their rendezvous with Moriarty is going to turn out, there is a chance that their collaboration, even their friendship as it is now will come to an end. Either Sherlock will be turned back into a human, with all the dangers and difficulties that potentially entails. Or John is going to end up as an animal. Or they’ll both be killed.

John has no doubt that their recent movement has been tracked. Likely, their new phone is bugged within an inch of its life. So there’s a good chance of the cavalry riding in to save them in the nick of time. But they can’t count on that, can they? And Moriarty will have brought his own supporting army.  _ Perhaps,  _ thinks John,  _ it consists of ferocious beasts. _ Moriarty is not going to go down without a fight, and not without trying to hurt Sherlock, and John by proxy. 

Absently, John touches the breast pocket of his jacket that contain one version (a slightly faulty one, Sherlock indicated) of their chemical research, and two small vials with the serums they synthesised. They still haven’t heard back from Mycroft’s scientists, but Sherlock seems convinced that one is actually working and resembles what made his equine shape permanent, while the other is a placebo. At least that’s what John assumes he meant.

He feels a slight nudge at his shoulder. The dog walker has long passed, and Sherlock seems eager to get moving. John nods, more to himself. They still have some time, and perhaps it’s advisable for both of them work off some of their restless energy and think up a plan to make it out of the encounter both alive and looking like themselves. Whatever that means in Sherlock’s case.

Before they step out from under the trees, however, on a sudden impulse John turns to Sherlock. Reaching up to hold his large head with both hands, John pulls it down to his own and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s. Voluptuous strands of forelock curl over his own hair. He feels Sherlock let out a long, low breath that sounds almost like a sigh. John closes his eyes.

“There’s a good chance that we could get killed tonight, or injured, or turned into something unpleasant,” mutters John. “And I don’t want that. Neither do you, I bet. But we’re both reckless, danger-seeking idiots. Yes, Sherlock, we are. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. So please, please, Sherlock, do me one favour, yes. Promise you’ll be careful. I’ll promise, too. No unnecessary risks, no trying to be clever and outsmart Moriarty or whoever awaits us there. Okay, a little outsmarting, perhaps, but not enough to earn us a bullet or a toxic dart. Okay? Promise me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs again. He snickers softly and shuffles closer to John, who releases his head and slings both arms round his neck, burying his face in soft coat and coarse mane and breathing in Sherlock’s horsey smell that still retains traces of the shampoo John washed him with the previous night. Sherlock rests his head on John’s back and lets out a long, shuddery breath, thus betraying his own anxiety, even fear, perhaps.

They stand like this for a long while, until John releases Sherlock and steps back, clearing his throat while adjusting his jacket. “Right, let’s go, then.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "Promise you'll be careful":  
> 


	11. The tiger strikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait. I hope the next update will be managed more speedily, particularly for those who decide to wait until the next chapter is up, because this one ends with a rather evil cliffhanger. It also contains mentions of blood and injuries, so proceed carefully if that triggers or squicks you.
> 
> Again I'm very grateful for the feedback the last chapter received, and particularly for another piece of fanart, this time by the brilliant [sparklingarse](http://sparklingarse.tumblr.com/) who drew a [beautiful picture](http://sparklingarse.tumblr.com/post/136758016036/i-tried-to-do-a-fan-drawing-for-khorazirs) of horse Sherlock.

The park seems deserted by the time they leave their hiding place in the grove. Across the boating lake, the bandstand is dimly recognisable as a dark, elegant silhouette against the trees lining the lake and the light-polluted, orange-tinted sky. John thinks they’ve chosen the location of the meeting well. The structure is situated in the middle of a lawn that slopes down gently towards the lakeshore. A few weeping willows line the waterfront nearby, their branches short enough so as not to hide a potential sniper. To the right of the bandstand a belt of trees and bushes runs, but it’s fenced in and shouldn’t be easily accessible.

“Come on, let’s have a look over there,” suggests John. Sherlock nods his agreement, but when John steps out from under the trees, he captures his sleeve with his teeth to hold him back.

“What?” asks John. Sherlock indicates his back. John smiles. “Okay.” His expression saddens a little. “Might be for the last time,” he muses a little wistfully. “When I first met you, I ever thought you’d let anybody ride you. But they’ve not been too bad, our outings, have they?”

Sherlock nods and snickers and moves next to a tree stump so that John can mount more easily. Together, they venture from the grove and cross the lake by the ornamental bridge. Waterfowl are resting on the slightly rippling water, the swans glowing faintly in the dim light. Apart from their soft nighttime noises, the rush of the wind in the trees and the faint roar of traffic on Baker Street and Marylebone Road, John only hears Sherlock’s hoofbeats on the path, which are then hushed when he steps onto the green to approach the bandstand.

The structure with its ornate roof and slender wrought-iron pillars upholding it bears no traces of a trap having been set up. A faded wreath of artificial poppies lies in front of it, next to a plaque commemorating some soldiers killed by an IRA bombing in the early 1980s. John dimly remembers hearing about the event on the news when he was a child. Apart from the poppy-wreath, the only sign of recent human occupation is an empty Lion bar wrapper pushed about by the wind.

“Want to wait here until midnight?” asks John. Sherlock shakes his head. He is tense with apprehension and excitement. John feels similar. They’ve still got hours to kill. He claps Sherlock’s neck.

“Right. How about wandering round a little? We could check the roads leading into the park. If Moriarty plans to bring his tiger friend, he’s likely going to cart him here because walking around with a large cat like that would raise suspicion, even in London. Not to mention that it would be all but safe. That way, we may see if he brings anybody else.” Sherlock agrees, and they set out.

They make their way up to the Zoo and Regent’s Canal, where they disturb a group of youths hanging out and playing music. The kids eye them curiously, but do not address them, likely preferring to be left to their own devices. From the Canal, they meander down again following the shores of the lake until they reach the bridge near the Baker Street entrance once more.

Only very few people are about, and none of them spares them a second glance as they hurry past. Sherlock isn’t very communicative, either. He appears to be deep in thought, now and again making soft noises to himself. He ignores his surroundings, apparently entirely trusting John’s vigilance. John scans the dark trees and hedges keenly and listens for unusual sounds, but the only times he startles are when a tawny owl swoops low over the their heads, and some ducks on the lake quack and flutter their wings in alarm before settling down again. John watches them suspiciously. Who can tell whether the waterfowl aren’t in truth Moriarty’s agents – people turned into ducks and geese, swans and coots – thus disguising them very effectively and enabling them to keep an eye on the goings on, John and Sherlock in particular. However, none of the birds look overly interested in the horse and his rider. Most seem to be sleeping or grooming themselves.

Nevertheless, John feels tension rising with each passing minute. When finally they settle under the swaying branches of the willows not far from the bandstand, he slides from Sherlock’s back with an uncomfortable sense of finality. Checking their phone, he finds a message from Anthea. He reads it out to Sherlock who nods gravely and with obvious satisfaction. Mycroft’s scientists have synthesised various substances according to Sherlock’s specifications and are now testing them against their versions of the transformative agent and on a number of different tissue samples. Preliminary results appear to confirm Sherlock’s theories that the original serum is unstable, causing the transformed to eventually revert back to their original shape, sometimes as soon as an hour after exposure, depending on dosage and their individual constitution. Genetic configuration both of the recipient and the foreign DNA added to their system seems to play a part, too. The substance Valerie Wickham has developed and Sherlock has refined does indeed stabilise the agent, thus achieving prolonged transformations without the need of top-up doses. This, Anthea quotes the scientists, is considered a great improvement. Wickham’s tissue samples show that repeated transformations damage the recipient’s original DNA to a point of constant mutations with potentially lethal outcomes, comparable to advanced cancer or a high dose of gamma radiation.

“If I understand it correctly,” John sums up what he has just read, “is that if you use the transformation serum without the stabiliser, your body constantly tries to fight its effects and return to its original shape, battling the foreign DNA and the changes to your own, so to say. Guess it’d be a normal reaction of a working immune system. I reckon you’d have to constantly increase the dosage if you were to try and remain an animal for, say, an entire week. Every time the agent begins to wear off – which it does fairly quickly, according to our findings –, your body will try and shift back, and your immune system will attack the foreign cells, or worse, your own cells that have been changed by the transformation. No wonder that’s unhealthy and eventually terminal.”

Sherlock snorts and nods. “But with the stabiliser ... I’d reckon that it somehow tricks your immune system into accepting the changes and the foreign DNA. Actually, this might be a real scientific breakthrough for medicine, because it would greatly improve the compatibility of donated blood and organs and decrease the risks involving transplants. Well, and you’re the living proof that the transformed state can be maintained without being detrimental to your health. And as Anthea has mentioned, there is no indication that your DNA is damaged in any way, or shows anomalies that would suggest cell deterioration or an autoimmune reaction. You’re a healthy horse. The only thing I still don’t understand how you can retain your human conscious and brain functions in a horse’s brain. And your eyes, they’re strange as well, because they look exactly like your human ones, and appear to have the same functionality, too, meaning your visual acuity is better than an ordinary horse’s, and your colour vision appears to be human, too. Or do you notice any difference?”

Sherlock gazes at him thoughtfully, blinks a few times, then shrugs. _We should have done a great number of tests while he is in this conditions,_ thinks John, but then discards the thought. Sherlock is his friend and not a test-subject. John reaches out and rubs his withers. Sherlock eyes him strangely, perhaps guessing his thoughts. “Well, at least we know that that your modified serum seems to be working. Still, you’re not going to hand it over to Moriarty, or whoever we’re going to meet, are you?”

Sherlock shakes his head and nickers. John thinks he knows what he has in mind: give Moriarty a small dose of the stabiliser so that he can test it, thus convincing him of its effectiveness, and then hand over a placebo and sell it as the real thing. It sounds like a workable plan. It also sounds far too easy and extremely dangerous.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Time seems to pass slow and treacle-like. Sherlock paces in a tight circle with John in the centre, snickering softly as if talking to himself and occasionally stripping a few willow leaves from the swaying branches with is teeth and eating them. John wonders whether he is suffering from a headache and is trying to self-medicate with willow bark, or whether he is simply bored and anxious and attempting to distract himself.

John resists the urge to play or read something on the mobile phone, fearing that the light of the display might give away their location. Then again, he reasons, it’s unlikely that their appointment doesn’t know where they are. He’s sure that Moriarty has been keeping tabs on them. Perhaps John has been right about the waterfowl on the lake or the squirrels in the trees, and they are in truth transformed humans working as his spies. John wouldn’t put it beyond him. Even though they’ve had no proof yet that Richard Brook, or Jim Brook, is in fact Moriarty, the nebulous criminal master-mind pulling the strings behind London’s underworld, Sherlock seems convinced of it. John trusts him, as usual. It’d take a particularly shrewd and devilish mind to contrive a plan like this, and to enjoy watching it come to fruition, too.

While John is checking his watch for what must be the twentieth time, only to find that there’s still half an hour until midnight, suddenly Sherlock stops, raising his head sharply and pricking up his ears, his nostrils flaring. John steps next to him, trying to follow his line of sight. Something appears to be moving in front of the dark line of bushes to the left of the bandstand. The phone pings in his pocket. Half-hiding behind Sherlock, he steals a glance at it. Sherlock has received an email.

 

From: theblackandwhitebirdie@gmail.com

To: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

 

_Greetings, Goldilocks and Johnny-boy,_

_you can stop loitering under the willows and come out to play._

_M_

_xxx_

 

John shows the mail to Sherlock who makes a deep, rumbling noise in his throat. As if to ascertain that John is ready, he looks at his companion who puts away the phone and straightens his jacket. John draws a deep breath, staring ahead where two dark figures have emerged from the murky line of the vegetation and are approaching the pavilion – two human-shaped figures, one tall, one of about John’s size: Brook (or Moriarty) and Moran, John surmises. The taller seems to be carrying something.

“Remember what we agreed, Sherlock,” John reminds him gravely. “No unnecessary risks.” Sherlock nods, rubbing his head against John’s shoulder. John licks his lips, feeling adrenaline flood his body as it readies itself for danger. “Okay, let’s go, then.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

They reach the bandstand almost at the same time as the other two, but climb the stairs first to then turn and await them on the raised platform. In the dim light, John recognises Moran’s tall, muscular physique and grim, silent features, and next to him Richard Brook, once more immaculately turned out in what looks to be a bespoke suit, his hair slicked back to reveal his high forehead. Moran is carrying a large suitcase. As they draw closer and come to a halt opposite Sherlock and John, the latter notices – and is certain that Sherlock does so, too, and is in fact able to deduce even more about both Moran and Brook than John – that Moran doesn’t look well. Despite his strong, athletic build there is a faint sway and stagger to his gait. A sheen of sweat seems to cover his skin, which looks grey and pallid in the dim light, apart from some darker patches like smears of dirt or dark paint or bruises which adorn his cheeks and forehead and vanish in his short-cropped hair.

John’s brows draw together in a frown while next to him, Sherlock stands tall and still, yet almost quivering with barely controlled tension, the swish of his tail his only outward sign of excitement. Moran tenses slightly as he watches Sherlock, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils as if scenting the horse, and releasing it slowly, accompanied by a low yet dangerous growl. Whatever is wrong with him physically, it doesn’t seem to have diminished his fighting spirit. His mouth twists in what may have been intended as a grin but looks more like a snarl, his exposed teeth sharp and predatory.

Sherlock snickers softly, fixing Moran with a long stare and stepping a little closer to John, as if to make a point of protecting his human friend. John in turn draws himself up and pushes back his shoulders, raising his chin defiantly and balling his fists. The move does not go unnoticed.

Brook smiles thinly, but with his mouth only. His dark, reptilian eyes remain fathomless and cold in his pale face. “Well, well, isn’t this touching?” he sneers, his voice a creepy sing-song tone John would dearly like to kick him for. Sherlock gives a low, growl-like snicker and flattens his ears to his head.

Brook holds up his hands in mock apology. “Oh sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your ... special relationship with your human friend, Sherlock,”

He speaks with a strong Irish lilt again, his native accent, assumes John. “He is rather cute, your little pet, I must say. So protective and full of righteous anger. Like a spiky little hedgehog. Well chosen, I must say. I’m pleased you could make it. Must have been difficult to slip out under Big Brother’s long nose and ever vigilant gaze, and the not quite as vigilant eyes of the police. I like this place you have chosen. Much more dramatic than my suggestion, what with the brave soldiers who have been killed here and this beautiful view. Well done, well done. Oh, and how remiss of me. I haven’t introduced my pet yet, have I? Meet Sebastian.”

He makes a an effusive gesture towards his companion. The addressed growls and once again shows a hint of teeth. His yellow, cat-like eyes glint dangerously.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t talk much – or at all, really. Not that I mind. Less capacity for boring me with mindless babble. I’m sure you’ve worked out why he isn’t loquacious at all, haven’t you, Sherlock? Why doesn’t Seb here talk?”

Sherlock nods. With his forehoof, he draws a few parallel lines onto the floor and what looks like an animal’s head. Brook raises a questioning eyebrow. Sherlock makes a sound almost like an exasperated sigh. John translates, “We think Sebastian is in truth a tiger that has been transformed into a man. Likely you used DNA of Ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran to create his human likeness.”

A thought strikes him. Moran disappeared a while ago, but to keep the transformation going, if John understands the agent and the way it works correctly, Brook would need a constant supply of fresh DNA to keep it up. Of course, he could have murdered Moran and frozen him, or parts of him. Nevertheless, John has an inkling that the ex-colonel is still around. John asks himself why Moriarty bothered with his transformed tiger in the first place, if that’s really what Moran is. Why didn’t he just keep the real man at his side as a bodyguard or right-hand-person, or whatever function the human-shaped creature standing next to him occupies? But perhaps Moran was unwilling to cooperate. Maybe it’s easier to train a tiger than to subdue a man’s will if one wants ferocity and brute muscle strength in a henchman. Or Moran got himself killed after all and only his remains are of use now ...

Brook claps his hands together, startling John out of his reverie. “Oh good, very good. You should make an act out of this, you two. “The Horse and his Doctor”. How very touching. Do contact ITV, I’m sure they’ll do a series. ‘Scripted reality’, isn’t that how these shows are called nowadays? They’re all the rave now, from what one hears. I’d watch it, I really would. But then, I have been watching you for some time. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to hack into both public and private CCTV. You only need to know the right people, and apply a bit of pressure here and there.” He spreads out his arms, smiling wickedly. “Easy peasy.”

He cocks his head, studying Sherlock with a gleeful expression. “I really have a mind of letting you two walk away. You’re just too cute. But first we must do business, don’t we? I understand you have brought a little present for me.”

Sherlock snorts and shakes his head.

“It’s not a present,” clarifies John gruffly. “We’re here for an exchange. And before we get down to business, there are a few things we want to know.”

“Oooh, you’ve got yourself a tough negotiator here, Sherly. I’m impressed. He looks so fluffy and unassuming in his cute chequered shirts and woolly jumpers, but inside Johnny here is a hard little ball of rage. I’m almost a little frightened now, or would be, if you stood any chance of getting out of here alive without my permission. But,” he shrugs, ”I’m in a generous mood tonight. Ask me – oh, oh, I see. How could I forget.” He cackles gleefully and rubs his hands together.

“This is when the villain reveals his true identity and his evil plans, isn’t it? Of course, of course. How fabulous. Well, in this case we must play by the rules. I’ve always looked forward to a moment like this, wanted to do one of these big reveal thingies. There are so few opportunities nowadays, and not many people appreciate a good show. So far things have always gone too smoothly, without any real challenges, you see. Boring, boring, boring. People scare so easily. And then you came along, Goldilocks. Finally somebody who’s bright and clever, and just a bit crazy and unconventional. Somebody who loves a bit of drama, like I do. And who’s as bored as I am. And you’re tenacious, too. You’ve been on my trail for so long, and I couldn’t shake you off. Good boy. Even horse-shaped you continued your investigation. That’s what I call dedication. So, who am I, Sherly?”

Sherlock draws the letter M onto the floor. “Moriarty,” says John, looking at the other defiantly.

He gets a broad but rather scary smile in return, accompanied by the smallest of bows. “Correct. Jim Moriarty, by some called the Napoleon of Crime. Hello.” He waves, grinning, before his expression turns mock-thoughtful.

“Not sure what to think of that, to be honest. After all, Boney ended up exiled on a tiny rock in the Mediterranean. That’s definitely not what I have in mind for retirement. Imagine the boredom. Ugh. No wonder he died soon. He didn’t even have internet, nor telly. How’d he catch up on _Eastenders,_ I wonder. Not that an island wouldn’t be nice, but one does have to make sure one has all the amenities, right? So yes, I am Moriarty. I don’t think I’m bragging when I tell you that I run the most efficient crime syndicate the United Kingdom has ever seen. That’s been some fun in the past. We’re set on global expansion now. Things have been going well, I have to say. This animal thing ... what a cute distraction. Smuggling protected species into the country by turning them in to people and simply buying them a plane ticket ... I marvel nobody else has had the idea before. But that’s only one of the enterprises I am controlling. I pull the strings behind governments and corporations, I rule the media and even influence the police. Neat, isn’t it? And all of that without dirtying my hands, most of the time. Once set in motion and maintained by greed and fear, one rarely has to lift a finger.”

“Why are you here, then?” demands John, trying to sound both unafraid and unimpressed. “If things are so swell?”

Moriarty shrugs. “As I said, things have become boring lately. Running this country, dabbling in Europe and overseas ... there is so little fun and excitement in it. I had to invent some new personalities to keep myself entertained. You’ve met them. Richard Brook, slick city banker, and his brother the wildlife photographer. Oh, the latter bit was fun. Photographing all those cute animals and posting them online. And those kids on Instagram, they’re hilarious, especially when I posted a series of photos of baby bunnies. They got thousands of likes, can you imagine? Thousands. No wonder people nowadays get so hooked on social media. You almost feel validated as a human being. The comments ... so touching. I almost cried. They were lovely rabbits. Seb here liked them, too.”

Moran growls, his teeth glinting as he attempts another grin. John feels pity for the rabbits.

“But, well, as entertaining as all of this was, it didn’t capture my attention for very long. That’s always the problem, isn’t it, Sherly? Boredom lurks just round the corner. I’m not really one for drugs or I’d have tried out your solution. But then, when I thought I needed to kill a few people just for the thrill of it. I stumbled across your website. Oooh, that was brilliant stuff. So clever. So arrogant. I lurked on your message-board for a while – did you notice? But then I thought how nice it would be to actually work with you. Give you puzzles and watch you dance. At the same time I learned about this gifted but broke little scientist down at UCL and her studies. Oh, that was good stuff. She needed money, and I ... I needed distraction, and moreover a modification of the transformation serum to make it more adaptable. For a while things worked perfectly, and got even better when Sherly here got involved as well. Such good times. But then Miss Wickham grew suspicious. She tried to terminate our perfect little arrangement, and moreover trick me and go public – that’s where Mr. Potter came in. I wasn’t happy with that, of course. And then she attempted to run, turned herself into a dog to try and disappear. It almost worked. I was almost very, very upset. But then Goldilocks saved the day and made everything even better by getting turned into a horse and, miraculously, staying one. Thank you, Sherlock. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

John snorts contemptuously. Moriarty’s voice and his pretended cheeriness are sorely testing his resolve not to punch him in the face. His sing-song voice is seriously testing his patience. Moreover, he doesn’t know whether Moriarty simply enjoys being annoying, or whether he is playing for time, having some ace up his sleeve. Next to him, Sherlock is restless. And Moran, too, appears to be getting increasingly ill at ease. Ill, in fact, is the right term. He is sweating more profusely despite the cool breeze coming from the lake. The strange streaks on his face have darkened and become more defined in shape. They look familiar. Suddenly, the reason for it strikes John: the transformative agent is wearing off. Sebastian is turning back into a tiger.

Moriarty has been watching John. He nods. “Indeed. My friend Seb here is slowly reverting back to his original shape. I’d rather advise you to hand over what you’ve cooked up for me so that we can try it on him. Because, honestly, you don’t want to be around when he’s his true self. He’s not ... nice, you know.”

“Because he’s a predator,” growls John, suddenly angry on behalf of the poor tiger that’s been roped into Moriarty’s evil schemes. “And he’s a protected species. I’ve a mind of letting him transform and see what he does to you. Bet he’s rather pissed off by now for being experimented on and used like this. And perhaps he’s hungry, too, and wants to take a bite of his former master.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrow. He drops his teasing, cheery expression and replaces it with one of cold threat. “Dr. Watson, I believe you have not yet understood who is pulling the strings here. Your wishes are of no consequence. You are only alive by the grace of my good will and patience, both of which are wearing increasingly thin. Now, let’s get down to business, shall we? Hand over the stabiliser.”

John jerks up his chin defiantly. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll shoot you,” comes the cold reply, accompanied by the soft click of a handgun’s safety switch. “Or rather,” goes on Moriarty as he levels the gun at Sherlock instead of John, “I’ll shoot him.”

Sherlock snickers softly, his eyes fixed on the gun before they swivel to the dark suitcase Moran has set onto the floor next to him. Swallowing and licking his lips, John raises his hands. It’s not the first time he has been held at gunpoint. There’s been that one time in Africa when poachers took a group of rangers he was working with and himself captive. But as desperate and violent as these men were, their determination was no comparison to the cold malice he sees in Moriarty’s dark, reptile eyes. He has no doubt whatsoever that he will shoot. And he can’t risk that, not when Sherlock’s life is at stake.

“All right, okay,” he soothes. “We’ve got the stuff here. But I haven’t got it on me, naturally,” he lies. “And what about our deal? You implied that you know how to turn Sherlock back. We’ll give you the stabiliser if you give us the antidote.”

Moriarty laughs. “Who ever said anything about an antidote? There isn’t one.”

At this, Sherlock shakes his head and snorts loudly, taking a step towards Moriarty and pawing at the suitcase. Moran growls, stepping in front of his boss.

“You’re lying,” John tells Moriarty. “You’ve got something to terminate the effects of the transformative serum.”

Moriarty cocks his head as he watches them, his amused expression back in place. “Very good, Johnny-boy. All right, then. Prepare for the show.”

With that, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket with his free hand and withdraws a syringe. With his teeth, he pulls off the stopper protecting the needle, before without warning, he rams the syringe into Sebastian’s neck. The man cries out, his voice deep and gravelly, guttural. Then he doubles over as if somebody has kicked him in the stomach. Loosing his footing, he rolls to his side where he lies twitching and moaning as if in considerable pain. He starts thrashing about and tearing at his clothes. He is moving about so wildly that he slips under the wrought-iron railings and rolls off the raised platform of the bandstand, continuing to wind and curl in on himself on the grass, a dark, shapeless form in the gloom. John cannot discern his shape clearly, and is not sure he wants to. The noises he is hearing speak of anguish and physical pain.

From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock surge forward towards Moriarty, only to be halted by a sharp hiss. “One move, Sherlock, and I’ll blow Johnny’s brains out. You stay where you are. You know I’m serious. Dr. Watson, use that rope you’ve got in your pocket and tie him to the railing. Do it now, or you’re dead, and so’s he.”

Cursing softly and then murmuring an apology to an agitated Sherlock, John withdraws the rope he made the makeshift headcollar from and ties it round his neck.

“No slipknot, Johnny. A real one,” Moriarty tells him warningly. John risks the briefest of glances at Sherlock, who gives him a low snicker in return. He ties a halter hitch that normal horses aren’t able to open and holds it up for Moriarty to see, who nods approvingly. However, when a heart-wrenching noise sounds from Sebastian, half cry and half roar, and Moriarty is distracted for a second, John ties the other knot, the one fastening the rope to the railing, in a way that Sherlock can pull it apart with his teeth.

“Well done, Dr. Watson,” says Moriarty approvingly. “And now: the stabiliser. Get it, open the suitcase, and use the test kit. I was going to use it on Sebastian, but as you can hear, there’s been a change of plan. Do it now. I’m rather losing my patience here.”

John exchanges a quick glance with Sherlock, who nods. From the inner pocket of his jacket, John fetches the vial with the stabiliser. Then, acutely aware of the gun pointing at his head, he kneels, pulls the suitcase towards him and clicks it open. Inside is what looks like a small transportable laboratory. Next to him, Sherlock gives a low snicker of appreciation. The kit looks futuristic, like something out of Star Trek or a James Bond film. It’s even illuminated from the inside. John gazes up at Moriarty. “What now? I’m not a scientist.”

Moriarty sneers. “I’m sure Sherlock can figure it out. Come on, Sherly, prove to me that your substance is the right thing.”

Sherlock leans in closer, as far as the rope allows, Apart from some electronic devices, the suitcase contains several vials of liquids, small bottles of chemicals which John believes to be indicators, and yet others filled with what could be tissue or DNA samples as they sit in a special, temperature controlled compartment.

Sherlock appears to be reading the labels, which are so specifically chemical that John can’t make much sense of them. Next to him, Sherlock gives a low but excited snort, but John isn’t quite sure what he has discovered. His attention is grabbed by what is happening behind Moriarty. Slowly, John rises to his feet, and Sherlock lifts his head, too, standing tall and tense, his nostrils flaring and the rope around this neck straining as unconsciously he pulls at it in an attempt to inch backwards.

Sebastian is climbing the steps to the platform. He has gotten rid of his clothes. John thinks he can see tattered bits and pieces lying on the lawn. Whatever has ailed Seb in human shape seems to have been remedied by his original form. Gone is the sickly hue, the sweating, the shivers and the swaying. He looks alert, fit and agile. John marvels that he has recovered so soon from his transformation, which must have put a heavy strain on his system. But there he is, ascending the steps, all sleek strength and predatory grace, his yellow eyes fixed on Sherlock. A low growl sounds from the tiger, which Sherlock answers with a tense snicker. He looks ready to bolt, obviously battling with the instinct suggested by his horse-shape: to flee and avoid the predator. At the same time his human conscious and curiosity compel him to stay. The combination makes for an epic struggle clearly visible in his form.

John makes a move to step closer to him, to try and calm him despite not feeling calm himself, but Moriarty forestalls his movement with an impatient twitch of the handgun which is still trained at John.

“Stay where you are, doctor.”

John glares daggers at the criminal. “Gladly, if you keep your feline friend next to you.”

Moriarty grins. “Oh, he’ll wait until I command him to attack.”

Sherlock snorts at this, pawing the ground with his forehoof. John studies the tiger who is watching Sherlock hungrily.

“Are you sure? When was the last time he was fed?”

Moriarty shrugs. “He had a Lion bar on our way here.”

At this, Sebastian growls. John isn’t sure if any traces of his human-ish conscious are left, if there ever was one, but he looks rather pissed off and angry. _And no wonder,_ he thinks. _A bloody chocolate bar ... I’d be pissed off, too, if I wanted meat and all I got was some wacky sweet._

“Do you have anything to control him, sedate him, if necessary, should he feel tempted to attack?” John wants to know.

Moriarty smiles conspiratorially. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Perhaps this was my plan all along. He won’t eat your clothes, so once he’s done with you, I can search them and your sorry remains for the stabiliser. I know you’re keeping it on your person, Johnny. Didn’t believe your story that you hid it somewhere for a moment. Well, I guess I’ll find myself a nice seat with a good view, then, and let you play with Seb. You are right, he does look rather hungry, poor kitty. Well, he’s in luck. I’d say it’s feeding time.”

With that, he steps back, gun still raised. Sebastian growls, his teeth glinting even in the dim light. He flattens his ears. John sees how his body tenses, readying itself for a leap. John himself is torn between throwing himself in front of Sherlock and trying to untie him so he has a chance of escaping the tiger, or leap at Moriarty to hopefully knock him out and get his hands on his gun, or to save himself by jumping over the railing. The last option he discards immediately, and the other two are taken out of his hands the moment the tiger strikes.

Sherlock cries out, a high-pitched whinny, and swings his rear around to push John out of the direct path of the tiger’s leap. John stumbles backwards and looses his footing. With his dodgy shoulder, he hits the iron railing hard and goes down gasping when white-hot pain shoots through his body. He is back up on his feet in an instant, however, grasping one of the iron pillars for support, because Sherlock has cried out again and his rearing and bucking next to him, trying to shake off the angry tiger that has attached himself to his side and back and is trying to get at his withers and throat.

Pushing himself off the pillar, John lunges at the tiger’s tail and pulls forcefully, managing to partially dislodge him and give Sherlock a moment to reach the slipknot he tied earlier and pull it open with his teeth. The moment Sherlock is free of the constraining rope, he leaps forward towards the steps. Sebastian twists around with astonishing agility and speed and attacks him again, his claws tearing a long gash into the black coat. Sherlock neighs with pain but dashes on, kicking out at Seb with his legs, obviously eager to get out of the pavilion and onto the open lawn, and also to draw the predator away from John.

John tries to hold back the large cat by its tail, which he knows is an utterly stupid idea. It earns him a lunge of a clawed paw which he barely manages to evade but which forces him to let go of the tail and stumble backwards, to painfully hit one of the pillars.

Suddenly, a shot rings out, then another. Both Sherlock and Sebastian have bounded out of the bandstand by now and reached the lawn. John hears a growl and then a shout immediately after the shots and wonders if anybody has been hit. He can see Moriarty standing next to the steps, his gun trained at horse and tiger who have both run a few paces but are now engaged in a fierce battle of teeth and hooves and claws. Moriarty fires another shot into the swirling knot of black and tiger stripes, but it does nothing to distract the fighters from each other. Still, John senses that as dangerous as the tiger is for Sherlock, a bullet it even more deadly. He knows what he has to do.

His plan is helped by the fact that Moriarty has apparently entirely forgotten about him, standing watching the fight with an expression of dark fascination which makes John feel sick in his stomach. This is the kind of man who enjoys animals in pain (and people, too), who’ll gleefully watch bear-baiting or dog fights. John feels a strong wave of disgust, even hatred course through him. It makes him more determined than ever to put an end to this man’s sick machinations.

Cautiously, John slides under the railing and then moves quickly and quietly over the short grass until he stands behind the criminal. Moriarty senses him that instant, half turns to bring the gun round to shoot him, but by then John has already leaped. They collide, and John tackles him to the ground, knocking the gun out of his hand and sending it flying into the darkness. Then he lands a blow on Moriarty’s chin that stuns him, making him groan. John punches him again, delighting in the sound of the nose crunching, then adds a slap to the temple which leaves Moriarty knocked out, his body sagging into the grass and lying still.

Breathing hard and massaging his aching fist, John struggles to his feet again to look for the gun. A growl of pain causes him to spin round and search the gloom for Sherlock and Sebastian. They have moved towards the lakeshore. Sherlock has just managed to dislodge the tiger from his back and has dealt him a good kick. Sebastian is crouching opposite him, studying his every movement. Both are out of breath. Sherlock appears to be favouring one of his forelegs and his head is drooping. It’s too dark and he’s too far away from John to assess his injuries, but from the way he holds himself, John can tell that he has been hurt. Sebastian, too, appears to have received a number of bites and blows.

Foregoing his search for the gun, John begins to pat Moriarty’s suit instead. In one of the jacket’s pockets he finds what he is looking for. Of course the bastard secured himself against a potential attack from the tiger. John unearthes a small case with syringes containing a strong sedative, and pieces of a short blowgun designed for close-range shots. He forgoes the pipe which would take time to assemble and grabs the darts. Hesitating briefly and estimating the dosage, he withdraws one from the box and injects half of its contents into Moriarty’s backside for good measure, to ensure he stays out cold. Then he runs towards the two combatants who are circling each other warily, both breathing hard and limping, snorting and snarling as they monitor the other’s every movement.

As he draws closer, John realises to his shock that Sherlock’s injuries appear to be substantial. He is trembling all over, can barely put any weight on his left foreleg and seems to be keeping on his remaining legs by sheer force of will. Sebastian is clearly exhausted, too. His coat shows signs of Sherlock’s hooves and teeth. But the hunger that drives him has not abated, and neither has his alertness.

He spins round when John has drawn close, despite the doctor approaching against the wind. With an angry roar, the tiger launches himself at John while the doctor fumbles to ready the syringe. Then Sebastian is upon him. John rams the dart into his chest with his left hand while trying to shield his face with his right arm. Claws tear at his shoulder, he is engulfed in the sharp animal smell of the large cat that carries a tang of blood. _Oh shit, this is it,_ he thinks, when he feels the touch of sharp teeth through the fabric of his jacket when Sebastian bites his arm.

Desperately trying to ready another syringe, John struggles to ward off the angry tiger as best he can, in the full knowledge that he stands no chance against the predator, the weight of whom is crushing him.

There is an anguished cry, and Seb flies off John when Sherlock’s hooves kick his side forcefully. The tiger lands inelegantly in a crumpled heap a few feet away. He growls, tries to raise himself to his feet but staggers and falls down again, panting. He tries again, his movements slow and sluggish, before he sinks down and flops onto his side, growling weakly and blinking at his adversaries.

John scrambles to his feet, breathing hard. With shaking hands, he readies the half-empty syringe he formerly injected Moriarty with, aims, and throws the dart to that it sticks in Sebastian’s heaving flank. The tiger turns his head, tries to lift it to see the dart, but can’t muster the strength. He lets out a long breath as the sedative takes full effect.

After having made sure that Sebastian is well and truly knocked out, with a deep sense of dread and worry, John scrambles back to Sherlock who has staggered away from the tiger and has made his way back towards the bandstand. Even before he can see him clearly in the gloom, John hears his fast, laboured breathing. A fear like a cold fist squeezes John’s heart. He runs faster, only to see Sherlock halt, sway, and then collapse as if in slow motion.

Sherlock is lying on his right side when John reaches him, his legs strewn haphazardly away from him. On his neck and flank, his dark coat is glinting wetly. Blood is seeping steadily from a number of deep cuts torn by the tiger’s claws and teeth. But they are not the worst injury. John sinks to his knees next to him and whips out the mobile phone. In the cold beam of the torch app, what John sees makes him gasp with dismay. Small and almost invisible, there is a hole in Sherlock’s chest. Blood is welling from it. Beneath his body, a crimson lake has begun to spread. One of the bullets from Moriarty’s gun has found a target, after all.

“Oh God,” whispers John through a throat almost to tight to speak, already tearing off his tiger-mangled jacket to press onto the bullet-wound which bleeds most profusely. Sherlock snickers weakly to acknowledge him, and a shiver runs through his body at John’s touch when the doctor lays his free hand on his neck, trying to reassure both the suffering horse and himself.

“Sherlock, I need you to stay calm, okay,” he tells him, surprised how steady his voice sounds despite his inner turmoil. He has seen injuries like these in the past, and in most of these cases his patients didn’t survive. The thought of that happening to Sherlock is unthinkable. And yet ...

Sherlock tries to lift his head to be able to better gaze at John, and John presses it down gently. “Don’t, please. Stay as still as you can and preserve your energy. I’ll try and stem the bleeding, but first I need to call an ambulance.”

His words sound strange to his ears. He _is_ the ambulance, despite his lack of means to help his equine patient. Sherlock is a horse, or horse-shaped. John is a vet. John can hardly call a normal A &E service to look after him. Or can’t he? Sherlock is human, after all. And he needs medical aid immediately, at least something to close his wounds and provide him with fluids until a proper blood transfusion can be managed and the bullet removed.

Keeping one hand pressed down onto the wound, John fumbles for the new phone with his other, dialling with one thumb. He quickly tells the emergency operator where they are, and that there is a person in desperate need of help and another one injured, too. He doesn’t mention that the first person is horse-shaped. He asks for police cover, too, telling the operator that there’s been a shooting.

He is still talking when he feels Sherlock shiver again under his hand. One foreleg pokes John’s knee, followed by Sherlock’s muzzle nudging his hand briefly, before Sherlock’s head sinks down onto the ground again with a long sigh of pain and exhaustion.

“What is it, Sherlock?” asks John gently, pocketing the phone again and running his hand down Sherlock’s head to calm him, and also to prevent him from lifting it again. “They’re on their way. We’ll get you through this, okay? Just ...,” he swallows thickly, “just stay with me. Hold on tight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorts, and tries to lift his head again. Despite John’s pleas to stay calm, he seems agitated. No wonder, reasons John. He must be scared out of his mind and in great pain. Sherlock’s foreleg nudges him again.

“Keep still, Sherlock, please,” he begs, but Sherlock moves even more, squirming on the ground, his forehooves scratching over the grass. He stretches out his neck as far as he can. John tries to hold him down, whispering soothing words. But Sherlock doesn’t relent. It’s almost like he’s trying to reach for something, thinks John.

His eyes fall on Moriarty’s suitcase which lies a few metres away on the raised platform of the bandstand, its small lamp glowing faintly in the darkness.

John swallows, then moves so that he can gaze into Sherlock’s wide eyes. He sees desperation there, and a silent plea. “The suitcase,” he mutters, feeling Sherlock shiver at the word. “You want me to get the suitcase?” Sherlock nods. John frowns at him, and then he understands, recalling Sherlock’s earlier excitement when he was studying the contents of the case. “The antidote,” breathes John. “You spotted an antidote in there?”

Sherlock’s head twitches in a nod. He has calmed down a little, or else he is nearing the end of his strength. John can feel his blood well through his fingers where it has soaked through the thick fabric of his jacket. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes twitching towards the case.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, “even if it’s in there, I can’t inject you now. We don’t know whether it’s the right dosage. And even if it was, in your state, the transformation could, likely _would,_ kill you. And I can’t lose you, you understand, I can’t.”

Sherlock holds his gaze steadily, before a deep shudder runs through his body. He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them to the same, imploring stare like before. He makes a soft noise in his throat which to John almost sounds like he is trying to utter his name.

“Sherlock, I can’t,” he repeats. “It’s too dangerous. It could kill you. Likely it will.”

Sherlock closes his eyes again, letting out a deep breath as if to say that he is dying anyway. In despair, John runs a hand through his hair, only belatedly realising that it is covered in blood.

“Sherlock,” he whispers. He glances at the dying horse, at the pavilion, swallowing down the tears threatening to leap into his eyes. He lets out a shaking breath, strokes Sherlock’s neck, only to feel his pulse racing, yet weak and unsteady, getting weaker. Balling his hand to a fist, he makes up his mind.

Returning with the case to Sherlock’s side, he holds up vial after vial to Sherlock’s eyes, the glass glinting in the light from the kit. “Which one is it, Sherlock,” he asks, watching the other closely for any signal until finally, Sherlock’s ear twitches and he snickers hoarsely. With shaking hands, John readies a syringe.

Sherlock doesn’t even twitch when John injects the serum directly into one of his major veins. Still keeping a hand on the jacket, he continues to stroke Sherlock’s head with the other while they wait for the antidote to take effect. John feels Sherlock’s pulse get ever weaker, his breathing more laboured. He whispers words into the furry ears to calm him. He tells him how much Sherlock means to him, how much he values their friendship, all the while feeling that these words are not adequate and potent enough. They don’t convey the truth, or at least not the full depth of it. John knows what he’d really like to tell Sherlock, and just when he has made up his mind to do so, Sherlock’s entire body tenses. His tendons stand out starkly in his legs, every little vein is visible under the dark coat. John isn’t sure what to expect. He hasn’t seen Sebastian’s transformation clearly.

Sherlock’s legs begin to thrash as if in pain. John is forced to withdraw so as not to get hit by the flailing hooves. Hooves ... not so much anymore. Sherlock’s feet are changing. As if watching a time-lapse of equine evolution backwards, his hooves begin to alter their shape and become smaller while other, finger- or toe-like extremities grow from his ankles until the only horn-like substance remaining are finger- and toenails. The feather recedes, as does the dark fur, leaving pale skin in most places. Joints shift underneath it, the neck shortens, the tailbone looks as if it gets sucked into the body. And the face ... John cannot see it clearly because Sherlock has turned it towards the ground and it is covered by the long, wavy mane, but John watches how the head and ears change shape, and the voluptuous mane gets shorter or falls out until it resembles a mop of dark, curly hair.

While this extraordinary transformation takes place, Sherlock continues to thrash and flail, groan and shiver. John hopes he is not in more pain than his injuries are causing already. They, unfortunately, don’t change, only become more visible once Sherlock’s flank and chest aren’t covered in dark horsehair any longer. Deep wounds can been seen in his side for a brief moment, before the gashes fill with blood again, John even thinks he can spot the white bone of a rib. The bullet wound is a dark red mark in the middle of Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock’s human form, he notes absently, is tall and slender, almost lean, with narrow shoulders, a comparatively short torso, long legs and large hands and feet, and a large head covered in dark curls.

When the last shocks have coursed through the body, leaving it eerily limp and still apart from faint shivers running through it, John surges forward to wrap his jumper round the trembling form to replace the blood-soaked jacket which has slipped off. He uses his jumper both to stem the flow of blood and to preserve Sherlock’s modesty, although John is certain that being seen naked by his friend is the very least of Sherlock’s worries right now.

Cradling his trembling form in his arms, very carefully, John lifts Sherlock’s head and turns him over a little so that he can look into his face. It’s like in the photos he’s seen, naturally, only thinner and so, so pale. In some places, dark hairs are still clinging to the skin, but they are brushed away when John runs a gentle hand along the features, tracing Sherlock’s brow and prominent cheekbones, the hollows beneath them, the pert nose and the full lips with their defined cupid’s bow. _He’s utterly beautiful,_ thinks John, realising that his eyes have filled with tears and his throat feels awfully tight. And it’s true. Sherlock’s unusual, strangely proportioned face is not commonly handsome, rather there is a striking, otherwordly beauty to it such as John has never seen before. A wild, fierce feeling of protectiveness, of longing surges through him. He recalls feeling it before with regards to Sherlock, but now it is multiplied a hundredfold. _I love him,_ John realises. It doesn’t matter that John’s never considered himself to be gay or bisexual, and that only a few minutes ago, Sherlock was a horse. _I love him, and I’ve done so for a while. And if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to lose him forever._

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter at the touch. He draws a deep breath, then shudders as if in pain, groans and then sighs, his fingers twitching. Slowly, his eyes slide open, and John sucks in a shaky breath when the pale blue-grey irises and the golden spot over the right pupil are revealed. He knows these eyes, would know them anywhere. They are unfocused for a moment, then the pupils narrow as Sherlock begins to try and take in his surroundings. Almost immediately, the eyes seek out John. For a moment, it seems like Sherlock is confused by what he sees, so much so that John’s heart clenches again, because he believes that on top of being severely wounded, Sherlock is utterly disoriented because he can’t recall anything that happened to him while in equine form, and is now gazing up at a – for him – complete stranger while his body is bleeding dangerously and is wracked by pain.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his voice tremulous as he again reaches out with a shaking hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock’s brow furrows, he makes a confused, helpless sound in his throat which sounds a lot like the snickers he used to utter as a horse. And then, suddenly, his expression changes. John thinks he can see when recognition kindles in his eyes. He feels Sherlock’s pulse leap and spike under his fingers. He rumbles again. One of his twitching hands grabs John’s wrist. John sees him swallow, then swallow again. Sherlock’s eyes are boring into his. He opens his mouth, makes another hoarse, rumbling sound, frowns, coughs painfully, tries again.

“Jhnn,” he breathes. John lets out a sob, grips his hand desperately. “Yeah, that’s me. Oh, Sherlock. Welcome back.”

Sherlock regards him gravely. The corners of his mouth twitch in the faintest of smiles. “John,” he tries again, his voice, although still hoarse, has regained some sonority.

Gripped by wild joy despite Sherlock’s dire situation, John stoops and kisses his forehead. “Yes, yes,” he whispers. “I’m here. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Sherlock has mastered the smile now, but upon John’s words, it turns sad, as if he is reluctant to make promises he can’t keep. His gaze holds John’s when the vet leans back. John can see utter weariness in them, and pain. _Don’t, Sherlock,_ he implores silently. _Please, don’t. Stay with me._

Sherlock swallows. His fingers twitch in John’s, then begin to relax. “Thank ... you,” breathes Sherlock. Then he closes his eyes with a sigh. John can feel his body relax further, the grip on his hand slackening. Sherlock lets out a long breath. His head lolls to the side when finally, his body loses its struggle against unconsciousness.

John’s wail of grief and despair is swallowed by the sound of the ambulance’s sirens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter is "Showdown":  
> 


	12. St. Bartholomew's Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, almost there ... For everybody who's been following this story, thanks a lot for your support and your patience. I never expected this story to get this long, and to gain the reception it has. Thank you very much. There's a short epilogue to follow still. I'll post it as soon as I've finished the illustration, hopefully tomorrow or the day after.

The next hours pass in a haze of worry and exhaustion. John stands by helplessly when the ambulance crew descends on Sherlock to try and stabilise him. Shortly afterwards, he is loaded onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. John tries several strategies to gain permission to ride with him in the back, but both his pleas and his threats are to no avail. He is neither a relative nor a spouse, merely a friend. His own injuries are minor, and he refuses to receive treatment on the spot while Sherlock’s life is in acute danger.

When another set of sirens announces the arrival of the police, the ambulance crew round on him to hand him over. To John’s great relief, DI Lestrade exits the first car, accompanied by a dark-skinned woman who immediately takes charge of the situation and commands the constables and forensics team arriving in the other two vehicles to secure the scene of crime and particularly to look after Moriarty and his companion. John is too wracked by worry to question how she knows about what has befallen and that the criminal and his companion are even there.

Lestrade, too, doesn’t waste any time asking questions about the situation with Moriarty. He simply inquires after John and whether he’s all right, and when John shakes his head in mute despair, staring after the ambulance as it drives off, he clasps his shoulder. “They’re taking him to Barts,” Lestrade informs him simply.

John stirs at this. “Barts doesn’t have A&E,” he mutters absently, rubbing a blood-stained hand over his eyes.

“For this special case they do. The research facility is there. They’ll look after him, John, don’t worry. He’s been through worse. After all, he’s survived the transformation before, remember, and without any medical aid”

John lets out a shuddering breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “He’s been shot, Greg,” he rasps. “In the chest. I couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. And he’s lost so much blood from the lacerations the tiger’s dealt him with his teeth and claws. They fought. And Moriarty shot him. I didn’t realise it at first, and when I did it might have been too late.”

Lestrade’s face pales at this. “Shit,” he mutters. “We knew about the fight, but not the shot. Where’s the weapon now?”

John makes a vague gesture towards the grassy plane surrounding the bandstand. “We’ve found it already,” announces the woman in charge of the police team, holding up an evidence bag.

“Good work, Donovan,” says Lestrade. He still looks worried, however, and bites his lip gazing at John. “Listen, I can see that you’re in no state to give me a concise account about what happened here. You should get that seen to, John.” He points at John’s head.

Absently, John reaches up, wondering what Lestrade is referring to, before recalling that he’s run his blood-stained hands through his hair and over his face and must look a right mess.

“It’s Sherlock’s,” he mutters. “The blood, I mean. I’m not hurt, just a bit roughed up. I’m fine.”

“You just indicated you’re not,” says Lestrade gravely, assessing him in the bright light from the headlights of the cars that are arriving. “And you don’t look it, either. But we’ll get you looked after.”

Blinking, John spots another ambulance and what looks like an animal transporter, likely for Sebastian. More police are arriving while Donovan is instructing her team to cordon off the area around the pavilion and set up lamps. Behind the ambulance drives a sleek, dark car which John recognises.

“That’s your ride, I guess,” muses Lestrade, checking a message on his mobile phone. “I’m still needed here, I’m afraid. Will you be okay? If you manage to see Sherlock, tell him that he’s not allowed to die, yeah. NSY won’t manage without him, tell him that. There’s a stack of unsolved cases waiting for him. We’re rather desperate for his return, meaning he’s not allowed to bugger off like this and leave us hanging. Tell him, will you?”

John swallows and nods, squeezing Lestrade’s arm in gratitude before hurrying towards the car. He half expects Mycroft Holmes to issue from it when the door opens, before he remembers that according to the last information he received, he’s out of the country at the moment. Anthea steps out, however, looking paler than usual but nevertheless professional and composed.

“I’m going to take you to the hospital, Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes has arranged for you to be allowed to visit Sherlock if … – when he is out of surgery and stable. He himself will return tomorrow on the earliest flight. Please, follow me.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Silence reigns in the car. Anthea concentrates on weaving through the surprisingly dense traffic on Marylebone and Euston Road as she drives eastward. John’s body seems undecided whether to surrender to exhaustion as soon as his back hits the leather upholstery, or whether to maintain a state of high, adrenaline-fuelled alarm that keeps him on the edge of his seat. He ends up fidgeting and fiddling with the safety belt. He is dimly aware of Anthea studying him concernedly in the rear mirror.

To distract himself from worrying over Sherlock’s fate, John asks, “What’s going to happen to Moriarty? I knocked him out and injected half the contents of a tranquiliser dart, but he’s likely to come round soon. I don’t think he’s badly injured. Hopefully he’ll have a nice headache for a while,” he adds grimly.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade has been informed about his importance, and also how dangerous he is,” Anthea replies. “Mr. Moriarty is going to be taken in custody, and his companion as well. You won’t have to worry about them any longer.”

John nods absently, gazing out of the window as they pass King’s Cross Station and turn southward. A thought strikes him. “How did you learn about our whereabouts so quickly? And the ambulance … they arrived pretty fast, the Police, too.”

In the mirror, he sees Anthea raise an eyebrow. “Even though surveillance was made difficult by your journey through the park under the cover of darkness, your movements were monitored most of the time. DI Lestrade and his team were on standby as soon as the warning was issued that you were not allowed, under no circumstances, to leave the flat.”

“You knew we’d disobey,” states John.

“Naturally. However, we wanted to avoid things from escalating the way they did. We did not know Moriarty was armed and ready to kill. I apologise for this oversight.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” mutters John around the lump in his throat. “If anybody is to blame, it’s me. I shouldn’t have allowed Sherlock out of the flat. We both knew whoever we were going to meet was potentially dangerous. We didn’t even know it’d be Moriarty, and who he is in the first place. And yet we went. And now Sherlock … he’s …” He swallows convulsively and buries his face in his hands.

“He is in good hands, Dr. Watson,” soothes Anthea. “They’re doing what they can for him. According to my information,” she adds, glancing briefly at the Blackberry plugged into the dashboard, “he’s just been moved into emergency surgery.”

 _So he’s still alive,_ John’s mind supplies, and he lets out a small sigh of relief before anxiety sets in again. So many things can go wrong in the operating theatre.

 

**- <o>-**

 

At the hospital, he tags along when Anthea, with an almost uncanny sense of direction as if she has previously memorised all the corridors and passageways of the large, complicated building complex, leads him to the ward where a team of surgeons and nurses are currently fighting for Sherlock’s life. John is not allowed access to the operating theatre, of course, but is told to wait outside.

As he paces the stuffy corridor that smells of disinfectant, linoleum squeaking under the soles of his shoes, a nurse approaches him and offers to look after his injuries and clean him up a bit. He is too worried and distracted to resist, suffering to be led into a treatment room where his arm and shoulder are examined. Luckily, the sleeve of his jacket took the full brunt of the tiger’s teeth and claws. The skin of his arm is only slightly lacerated, the scratches too shallow to even necessitate a bandage. The nurse disinfects them and asks after his tetanus inoculation, which John assures him is up to date. He has been lucky, he knows. Apart from a few scratches and some more serious bruises, he got off lightly. _Yes,_ he thinks, fear and worry returning with full force, _because Sherlock dealt with the tiger before he could tear me apart. And for that, he received a bullet in the chest._

The nurse, a freckled redhead called Peter who can’t be older than twenty, leaves him with a blanket because according to his assessment, John is in shock. He offers to bring him some tea. John accepts both with a mute nod, sitting huddled on the examination table with his legs and arms dangling, the blanket hanging loosely over his shoulders. Every sound on the corridor, however, makes his heart beat faster and causes his head to jerk up. Peter returns with a paper cup of milky tea and asks whether John needs painkillers or an icepack for his shoulder. John refuses both. The tea tastes of condensed milk and cardboard, but it’s hot, at least. John realises his hands are shaking as they hold the cup. Apparently, Peter’s been right about the shock. He has wisely provided a plastic lid for the container, because otherwise, John would have spilled the hot beverage all over his hands.

 

**- <o>-**

 

He does not know how much time passes, nor does he care. His sense of time is skewed, anyway. The only means to measure it are the cups of tea he is consuming, and two visits to the toilet. The nurses have moved him to a plastic chair in their small staffroom when they are fed up with his constant pacing outside because he’s constantly getting in their way. John is sure that this isn’t standard procedure, but suspects that Anthea has had a word with them. Mycroft Holmes’ shadowy influence surely extends into this ward as well, and Anthea is his executive. She has checked on John briefly, already engrossed again in her Blackberry, then left him in the care of the nurses, informing him that she is required to talk to the police about Moriarty and his handling. John thanks her and watches her rush off. At the moment, he isn’t interested in what happens to Moriarty. They can lock him away in a cell, or shoot him to the moon, or turn him into a gnat and squash him for all he cares. The only thing he can think about right now is Sherlock.

What feels like a lifetime later, but in truth can’t have been more than three or four hours, the door of the staff room opens to admit a small, tired looking, dark-haired woman whose badge identifies her as a surgeon, Dr. Demirçi. John feels his heartbeat accelerate and his stomach plummet. Jerkily, he rises from his chair, the scrape of the metal legs loud on the linoleum floor, the pattern of which John has studied so intensely during the past hours that he is sure it’s going to haunt his dreams from now on. Dr. Demirçi raises a soothing hand.

“Dr. Watson, please do stay seated,” she says. “Mr. Holmes is out of surgery. It was a difficult procedure because he had lost a lot of blood and was moreover suffering some after-effects from his transformation – yes, I was informed of his special circumstances prior to surgery. He is still unconscious, and very weak, mostly due to bloodloss which had reached critical levels when he arrived here, despite the ambulance crew’s efforts. It’s too early to make a prognosis about his chances of survival. But he has come this far, and if he survives the next couple of hours and his condition remains stable, and moreover he steers clear of infection of his lacerations and the bullet wound, I am – cautiously – confident that he will pull through. Despite the changes his body went through recently, preliminary checks found that apart from his injuries, he is fit and healthy, although these tests need to be repeated, of course, should his recovery allow. Sadly, that is all I can tell you as of now.”

John sinks back onto his chair. He runs both hands through his hair which still looks a mess, blood-strained and tousled, with tufts sticking out at odd angles. Looking up at the surgeon, he swallows, then nods. “Thank you,” he rasps. He clears his throat and tries again. “Thanks, for talking plainly and not sugarcoating things.”

“What good would that do?” asks Dr. Demirçi.

Despite his heavy heart, John feels compelled to smile wryly, before his expression turns grave again. “May I see him? I know I’m neither family nor a spouse, but you let me stay here all this time and … it’s important. It really is.”

Dr. Demirçi studies him thoughtfully, then nods. “Five minutes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock is the only patient in the intensive care unit at the moment. John is prepared for seeing him hooked to machines monitoring his heartbeat and breathing. What shocks him is how small Sherlock looks as he lies amid white sheets. His face and chest are deadly pale, almost as devoid of colour as the fabric. He seems bleached like a piece of driftwood, or a bone left out in the sun. John has become so used to Sherlock as a large, looming presence, dark and energetic, a whirlwind of strength and quick thought that to behold him like this, almost melted into the sheets but for his dark hair fanning out onto the pillow, he seems unreal to John, like a wholly different person. It’s not only that he’s human-shaped again, which John still hasn’t become used to, but also because everything that seemed to make Sherlock himself, his wit and keen intelligence, his humour, his imperiousness and bossiness, his shy awkwardness when it came to showing or receiving affection – they’re not present right now. The only indication of him still being alive is the regular beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss and whistle of the life support that helps him breathe. Electrodes are scattered over his pale, smooth chest, which is bandaged where Moriarty’s bullet hit him. He’s still intubated, there are cables and electrodes everywhere. More bandages seem to be covering his flanks and his back.

“You can sit down here, Dr. Watson,” a voice next to him invites him. He jumps slightly and turns to Dr. Demirçi, who is watching him gravely, indicating a chair at Sherlock’s bedside. John draws a deep breath and walks over, his eyes on his friend’s still form all the time. He swallows, once, twice, and draws a shuddery breath as cautiously, he takes a seat.

“Can I touch him?” he asks quietly.

“You have disinfected your hands, so yes, but carefully. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

John nods gratefully without looking up. Gingerly, his hand trembling, he reaches for Sherlock’s which lies on the coverlet, an IV-drip hooked to it. Another is attached to the crook of his other arm. He is still given blood, John realises, and more fluids to restore what he has lost. Very gently, he runs two fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand, stifling a sob when he feels that despite Sherlock’s paleness, his hand is warm.

Clearing his throat several times before he dares to speak, John addresses him hoarsely, “Hey, Sherlock. I don’t know if you can hear me. Your brother pulled a few strings for me to be allowed in here. I hope that’s okay for you. I …,” he swallows again, scrubbing his eyes with his free hand because they have begun to sting again. “I hope I’ll be allowed to stay a bit before they kick me out. That means for you to wake up soon, do you hear? They won’t tolerate me in here forever, because there’s a danger I’ll drink all their tea and wear a fucking groove into their floor from pacing so much. I’ve a few things to tell you, okay, and if I can’t in here, it means you have to recover and be released. So don’t think you can laze about indeterminably. Lestrade sends his regards and says they’re pretty fucked without your help, and that already unsolved cases are piling up. And Mrs. Hudson won’t be happy about the scrape you’ve gotten yourself into this time, either. You know she adores you. And I … you can’t just leave me like this, you hear. I’d miss you, terribly. So please wake up. Please, for me.”

Footsteps announce the return of Dr. Demirçi. John sighs and lets go of Sherlock’s hand. “Try and get some rest, Dr. Watson,” she says gently. “And breakfast, too. You’ll be of no use to him when he wakes up and you’ve fainted from exhaustion and hypoglycaemia. The café opens in about two hours. They do a decent breakfast, although I’d stay clear of the porridge which tends to look a bit dodgy. I understand if you don’t want to leave. You can stay in the staffroom as long as you don’t interfere with the nurses’ work.

John thanks her and slowly rises from his chair. Even though he is loath to leave Sherlock, if only for a little while, he knows she is right. Now that the adrenaline boost of seeing his friend begins to ebb away, exhaustion is finally catching up with him despite the litres of tea he has imbibed. There is nothing he can do for Sherlock now. Whether he wakes or not is entirely up to him. With a last, longing glance at the pale face, John follows Dr. Demirçi out of the room.

 

**- <o>-**

 

John manages to sleep fitfully for about two hours in a chair in a corner of the staffroom, his feet propped up on another chair, the blanket Peter provided him spread over his legs. He wakes with a start when another nurse leans over him to switch on the small radio sitting on a shelf above him, and the Spice Girls blare into his ears. His enquiry after Sherlock’s state is met with a grave expression and the information that nothing has changed: he is still unconscious, but at least his condition hasn’t worsened and he is still alive. John takes some small comfort in that.

Groggily, he gets up, winces at the dull pain in his back and shoulder (and his head and legs, for good measure), and slinks off into the loo to splash some water into his face and rinse his mouth. A quick glance in the mirror over the sink confirms that he looks like he feels: his hair a riot, his face pale, his chin covered in faint stubble, the shadows and bags under his eyes dark and deep. He looks twenty years older, and feels like an old man. Running his wet hands through his hair, he tries to tame it somewhat and wash the last traces of Sherlock’s blood out of the greying strands.

The cafeteria is surprisingly busy. Most of the patrons appear to be hospital staff. John gets himself a coffee and croissant with butter and jam. Even though his stomach rumbles at the smell of cooked breakfast, he knows he won’t manage to eat eggs and beans and bacon today. Withdrawing into a corner of the café, he sits picking at his pastry and sipping the coffee. At some point he remembers his phone and takes it out. There are several text messages, most of them from Lestrade and one from Harry enquiring after his whereabouts. John wonders where they got his new number from. He’s received some emails, too, but apart from one message from one of his colleagues at the RSPCA clinic who wants to know if they can swap shifts next week, they’re all spam and he deletes them.

He’s about to declare his breakfast project as failed at the sight of his half-eaten, crumbly croissant when he hears footsteps approach and the click of something sharp on the floor. Looking up, his eyes land on the tall figure of Mycroft Holmes. Despite being attired in his usual bespoke three-piece suit and a silk tie, Sherlock’s brother looks almost as tired and dishevelled as John feels. It’s plain to see that he hasn’t had much sleep last night. His face is pale and lined with exhaustion. John doesn’t know where he has traveled from, but it seems to have included a flight of several hours.

With a vague move of his hand, he invites the other to sit, which, to his mild surprise, Mycroft does, eyeing the croissant hungrily for an instant, before facing John.

“Any change?” asks John, foregoing a greeting.

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. He is still unconscious.”

John sighs and drains the last of his lukewarm coffee, before gazing at the other over the rim of his cup. “Go on, say it. I know that you blame me for what happened. And you’re right. I should have stopped him from meeting with Moriarty not aided him. I should have locked him up in the flat or something.”

Mycroft studies him keenly, with a sharpness of gaze reminiscent of his brother’s that makes John’s heart hurt in his chest. “Dr. Watson, we both know that this confrontation was inevitable. Without your presence, I daresay Sherlock would have been off far worse. You saved his life.”

“Only after he saved mine. He drew the tiger away from me. He risked so much …” John swallows and runs a hand over his mouth.

“Because you are important to him,” says Mycroft plainly.

John drops his hand and looks up at him. “You think so?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow in what must been the Holmesian expression of ‘I can’t believe you’re so dense’.

“Of course. I take it DI Lestrade has informed you of some aspects of Sherlock’s past, such as his drug habit (which he likes to call ‘controlled usage’ and I ‘addiction’), and his lack of friends and sexual or otherwise intimate partners. Sherlock has always been a loner, partly by choice, partly by who and how he is. It was utterly remarkable to see him take to you the way he did, first out of necessity, then out of what appears to be true affection. You have been … good for him, doctor. And I am grateful for that.”

John stares at him incredulously. “You really mean that?”

“Do I look like someone who says things he doesn’t mean?”

“Well, you’re a politician.”

A faint smile lifts the corner of Mycroft’s thin mouth. “Touché, Dr. Watson. The point I’m trying to make, however, is that Sherlock needs you. I am confident he is going to recover. He is far too stubborn to surrender to death without a struggle, and I am convinced that he believes to have unfinished business with you.”

John frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft leans back in his chair. “I am sure you know. Oh, it appears there are news.” Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he withdraws a mobile phone and skims over the message he has received.

“Dr. Demirçi messaged me. It looks like Sherlock is coming round.”

John feels his heart jump into his throat. “Can we see him?”

“Yes.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Sherlock’s bed is surrounded by people when John and Mycroft reach his room. They block the view so that at first, John can’t even see Sherlock clearly. What he does notice, however, are the changed sounds of the heart monitor. Sherlock’s heartbeat is faster. John wants to dash forward, but Mycroft’s umbrella blocks his path. “Wait,” he counsels.

So John waits, anxiously. He wishes he could be as calm, at least outwardly, as the elder Holmes. Eventually, the nurses step back and Dr. Demirçi finishes her examination. “Mr. Holmes, you have visitors,” she says gently, indicating the two men hovering near the door. John sees Sherlock’s eyes shift in their direction. He seems to have difficulties focussing against the bright overhead lights. He makes a weak, frustrated sound around the breathing tube still down his throat. His frown deepens when apparently he recognises Mycroft.

“Welcome back, little brother,” he is greeted quietly. Sherlock blinks, struggles a little against the tube which immediately brings Dr. Demirçi back to his side, restraining him with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. “No exertion, Mr. Holmes, please. I know the tube must be uncomfortable, but we can’t remove it just yet. Try to breathe calmly. That’s it. Your brother is here, and so is Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift from her to Mycroft, and then to John who steps out from behind him and comes forward. Again it seems to take Sherlock a while to focus properly. John wonders if his apparent disorientation and sensory issues are due not only to his severe injuries but also to his recent transformation. Surely it must be odd for him to have a human field of vision again instead that of an equine. But whatever the reason, he does not care. Sherlock is alive and awake, and aware of his surroundings – enough, apparently, to disapprove of his brother’s presence and, if the widening of his eyes when finally they focus on John is any indication, to appreciate John’s.

Cautiously, John approaches him, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s. “Hey, Sherlock,” he says softly, not quite managing to keep a tremor out of his voice and a prickly of tears out of his eyes.

Sherlock watches him. His heartbeat has picked up yet again, so much so, in fact, that Dr. Demirçi is watching her patient concernedly. John sees Sherlock’s fingers twitch as if he is trying to lift his hand. He reaches out and briefly touches the long fingers. Sherlock sucks in a long breath, then makes a face when apparently it hurts him. His eyes are boring into John’s. John wonders whether he wants to say something but can’t because of the breathing tube. He touches Sherlock’s hand again to soothe and reassure him. After all, they’ve communicated without Sherlock being able to utter words for several weeks now and it worked just fine.

“Don’t exert yourself, Sherlock. I’m here, and I’m going to stay if you want.” Sherlock inclines his head in the smallest of nods. John beams at him, then sniffs and cuffs at his eyes to get rid of the tears.

“Right, okay, that’s settled, then. Dr. Demirçi, I fear you’ll have to deal with me around for a little longer now.”

She sighs while exchanging a glance with Mycroft. “It’s against hospital regulations, but I can see that it benefits the patient. So stay, by all means. However, should you cause trouble of any kind, you’ll be removed. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, doctor,” promises John.

Dr. Demirçi shakes her head. “This must be the strangest case I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at this. “And you’ve only encountered my brother as a human. Things were even stranger before.”

She nods. “So I’ve heard. We need to discuss how to deal with his aftercare. I have already had requests from your scientists to analyse his samples and check him through, but under no circumstances can I allow this at this stage. First he must be stable and out of danger. Please communicate this to them.”

John only takes in parts of the conversation, and sees the speakers’ reactions in his peripheral vision. His primary focus is still on Sherlock, who lies gazing up at him from tired eyes, but with a calm, almost serene expression. John wonders whether he’s already receiving morphine to battle his pain. Sherlock’s heartbeat and breathing are getting calmer, and eventually his eyelids begin to droop. John keeps stroking his hand until he falls asleep again. As he watches him, the heavy weight on his heart begins to lift. Sherlock’s not out of the woods yet, but John is confident now that he’s going to make it. And the hospital staff will have to get used to him, because he’s not going to leave his friend’s side come what may.

 

**- <o>-**

 

It takes a few days until Sherlock is well enough to stay awake prolonged periods of time. He is still groggy, his sharp mind addled by morphine and exhaustion (although he apparently tries to battle the former by reducing the dosage when neither John nor the doctors and nurses are around). He also seems somewhat sluggish because of the aftereffects of the transformation his body went through. Apart from the doctors and nurses looking after his injuries, once he is stable enough to be moved out of intensive care to a regular room, there is a constant stream of scientists monitoring his reflexes and other bodily functions, as well as taking what must amount to hundreds of blood and tissue samples, so many that at one point Dr. Demirçi kicks them out with some choice words and a booming voice that belies her small stature.

John understands their desire to make the most of the unique opportunity to study someone who spent about a month in the body of a horse, but at the same time he rues every minute that he isn’t allowed to be alone with Sherlock. Don’t these people understand that there are more important issues at stake here than their investigation of a scientific marvel? Don’t they see that here are two men who’ve been through a lot and never had the chance to actually talk about ... well, about what?

Well, that exactly is the problem. By now, John believes he has sorted out his side of things. He knows what he feels for Sherlock. He knows that he loves him, deeply, and would do anything for him. Sherlock appears to remember their time together, and fondly, too, if his reaching for John’s hand after waking up for the first time is anything to go by. He smiles more when John is around, and even though he protests against and complains about everything as soon as he is rid of the breathing tube, he usually makes an effort of eating or letting the nurses treat him when John reminds him of his manners and the necessity of getting well soon.

Shortly after his catheter is removed, he even allows John to accompany him to the toilet, walking haltingly on what must seem like two legs too few and leaning heavily on John. So all in all, he appears to not just be suffering John’s company for the sake of seeing another face than those of the scientists and the hospital staff (and his brother’s, twice). He seems to actually appreciate the vet’s presence, and actively prefers John’s care to that of the nurses and doctors, be it visits to the bathroom, washing or grooming. John feels a little out of his depth, until he reminds himself that in fact, he has done all this for Sherlock before. He has cared for him after his initial injury, washed him, brushed his coat and mane and tail, cleaned his hooves and reminded him to eat. The person inside remains the same, John knows, despite looking different now.

So far, no other visitors have been allowed. There has, however, been a constant stream of cards, flowers and even sweets. John surmises that Mycroft has taken it upon him (or delegated the task to his underlings) to inform people. He has also arranged leave for John at the RSPCA clinic. John isn’t sure he wants to return there anyway. He’d much rather work at Sunny Meadows as their resident vet, if this can be arranged. But all these future plans and wishes are vague and shadowy, dependent on how things develop with Sherlock.

People who know him seem beholden to send him gifts, most often causing Sherlock to roll his eyes but secretly enjoying their attention. Mrs. Hudson sends a bag of clothes, among them Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff coat and his blue silk robe, a card with a drawing of a bee, and a large carrot cake she swears Sherlock likes best.

Mike Stamford’s daughters send drawings of ribbon- and flower-adorned Horse-Sherlock, accompanied by a story they composed for him written with pink glitter pens. John wonders what they’ve been told concerning Sherlock’s true shape and identity. In the story, Sherlock is really a unicorn and has all kinds of adventures with dragons and goblins, a pirate queen and her faithful first mate (who John thinks looks a bit like himself in the drawing, while the pirate queen is clearly Alicia from Sunny Meadows).

A similar card and a bouquet of bluebells and hemlock and other forest flowers arrives from Sunny Meadows, created by some of the children who visit regularly. John is touched that even Oliver, Stella and Ted’s autistic son has signed the card and drawn two of his beloved chickens. Hal sends a bag of oatmeal biscuits “for cheering Sherlock up”. John talks to Harry and Clara on the phone (apparently Mycroft has provided them with his new number). They, at least, have been told enough of the truth to understand what happened to Sherlock, and are eager to learn more. During one of his visits to the cafeteria, John gives them a brief account without going into detail. He promises to visit as soon as Sherlock has been released from hospital.

This, however, may still be some time hence. John knows from his own gunshot wound that Sherlock is going to need rehab. He hopes that Mycroft’s scientists aren’t going to cart him off to some secret facility somewhere. One name, Baskerville, has fallen several times. John recalls it’s located somewhere in Devon, Dartmoor, if he remembers correctly. He wants to stay with Sherlock. But does Sherlock want him to stay, too? They haven’t had a chance to really talk yet.

 

**- <o>-**

 

Worn out by several days of bedside vigil and irregular sleep on hard chairs and the narrow hospital bed the nurses installed in Sherlock’s room after they couldn’t endure seeing John’s misery any longer, John has dozed off in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. He startles awake when the novel he has been reading in off and on while Sherlock has been resting hits the floor. To his surprise, he finds Sherlock awake and looking quite alert as he watches John. The morphine-induced dullness has left his eyes. Some colour has returned to his pale cheeks, and the dark circles under his eyes have lessened. Checking, John finds that he has again stopped the opiate supply. He raises his eyebrows in a scolding expression and reaches for the tab, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s all right. I want to be able to think.” His voice is much stronger now, no longer slurred by the drugs.

John nods. “All right. But don’t overdo it.”

“Yes, doctor,”

John smiles at that. “I’m no longer your doctor, remember.”

Sherlock shrugs, watching John intently. “Why are you still here, then?” he asks, mildly, his expression genuinely curious. “I have been in hospital for almost a week now, spent the first two days mostly unconscious and have been sleeping through most of the others. And yet you stayed, all the time, dozing in the chair despite the pain it is causing in your back and shoulder. You didn’t even return to your accommodation to fetch fresh clothes or toiletries. My brother’s minions did that since you refused to leave. Why?”

John returns his intent gaze steadily, but swallows. _This is it, then,_ he muses. _The Talk._ Licking his lips and clearing his throat, he replies, “Because you’re my friend.”

Sherlock’s face shifts into a strange expression. To John, it almost looks like wonder, tinged with mild disbelief.

“Friend?” Sherlock says softly, as if tasting the word.

John lets out a long breath. “Of course you’re my friend, Sherlock. As I hope I’m yours. After all we’ve been through together ... I know we’ve not talked a lot, but ... I don’t know ... it felt to me that we got along pretty well these past weeks.”

Sherlock looks at him and then, like sunlight revealed from behind a cloud, his face brightens and he smiles shyly. “Yes, we did. It was ... good, having you around. Otherwise I would have perished of boredom.”

“Or infection back at the shelter,” John reminds him, and Sherlock nods.

“Or that, yes. Without your help, I would still be a horse, I guess. Or dead. Or both.”

John swallows again. “Do you miss it? Being a horse?”

Sherlock frowns as he considers the question. “I miss being able to run that fast. Not that I can run at all in my current state. Some of my senses worked differently, too. It takes getting used to having a different field of vision again. My sense of smell is different. It feels strange not having any coat of hair on, and I would like to still be able to swivel my ears. That was handy. But the one thing I really miss is the ability to twitch my panniculus carnosus. Right now, my back itches between my shoulder blades, and I can’t really reach to do anything about it with all these cables and machines attached to me.”

He shifts and squirms a little in the bed, trying to rub his back against the sheets and wincing when apparently he remembers that his back is injured, too. John rises from his chair and indicates Sherlock’s back. “Want me to scratch it?”

Sherlock cocks his head, then smiles. “Please.”

John carefully raises the bed so that Sherlock is in a sitting position. Sherlock leans forward with a groan. John winces slightly when he sees the bandages on his back where Sebastian’s claws tore open Sherlock’s hide. According to the doctors, they are healing well. Carefully, John reaches out and rubs an unbandaged spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, touching warm, freckly skin. Sherlock’s head droops as he lets out a long, content sigh.

“Thank you,” he says when after a bit, John stops and Sherlock leans back onto the cushions again. John is once more surprised how normal and natural this rather intimate touch has felt. But then, he reasons, he has touched Sherlock before, many times. He has looked after his injuries, brushed him, even washed him with a sponge and combed his mane. Right, okay, so he was covered in short fur at the time and equine-shaped, but inside it was Sherlock all along. And more recently, John has helped him onto the loo, washed him occasionally and brushed his curls, and even shaved him once.

Sherlock seems to be thinking along the same lines – although it’s always difficult to tell with him and his strange eyes. He watches John from under his lashes. “You haven’t entirely answered my question, John,” he states quietly. “Surely, a friend would be worried and perhaps spend a night in hospital with their sick companion, but not six days. You have lost at least six pounds, you’re aggravating your shoulder by sleeping in plastic chairs, you are forced to use a razor you hate and are enduring hospital food and bad tea voluntarily. I am no one to judge the depths of friendship, of course, unused as I am of actually having friends, but isn’t this a little over the top?” He glances up at John shrewdly.

John lets out a long breath as he sinks back into the chair. He nods to himself, running a hand through his hair and over his face, the fingers rasping over stubble. How on earth does Sherlock know about the razor? Anxiety coils in his stomach. What is Sherlock aiming at? A confession? John’s actions are confession enough, he thinks. Does he really have to spell it out, make himself vulnerable in the process? John hates to talk about feelings. He chances a glance at Sherlock who is watching him, his expression curious but also ... kind. And rather apprehensive, too.

Drawing a deep breath, John raises his eyes to Sherlock’s. “It’s more than friendship, actually,” he confesses.

“What does that mean?” asks Sherlock.

John shrugs. “Not sure. It’s just ... you mean a lot to me, Sherlock. When you lay there and I feared you were going to die ... I realised I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life without you. In the short time we’ve known each other, you’ve become the most important person to me.”

Sherlock looks at him, then at his blanket. A frown creases his forehead as he tries to make sense of what John has told him. He blinks a few times. Next to him, the heart monitor has picked up, the beeps much faster now as Sherlock’s heart rate increases. John can feel his own heart beat nervously as he waits for a verdict.

After what seems a long time, Sherlock raises his eyes to John. “But you’re not gay,” he states cautiously.

John licks his lips and shrugs, almost tempted to laugh at the strange turn Sherlock’s thoughts have taken. He hasn’t even considered sexuality but felt he was talking about emotions. But apparently Sherlock has looked at things from another angle, too.

“No, I’m not. But I guess I’m not entirely straight, either. I mean,” he runs a hand through his hair trying to think of how to best put what he wants to say without it sounding completely screwed up. “I mean, I kinda fell in love with you when you were horse-shaped. Don’t know what that says about me. I’m definitely not into that kind of thing, although you were a fine looking specimen,” he adds with a nervous little laugh and a crooked smile, which thankfully Sherlock returns.

“It’s just … what I’m trying to say is that I don’t care what kind of body you’re in, whether you’re male or female—”

“Or have two legs or four,” adds Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Or that, yeah,” laughs John. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. I just … it doesn’t have to be anything sexual at all, ever, if you’re not interested. I’d simply like to stay with you, if you want me.”

Sherlock looks both touched and worried at this, colour tinging his high cheekbones. He bites his lower lip and fiddles with a fold of the blanket on his lap. Suddenly, his expression sharpens as if he remembered something. “In love?” he asks quietly, his eyes keen, his gaze genuinely surprised.

John frowns. “What?”

Sherlock fiddles some more with his blanket. “You said you fell in love with me.”

John swallows, then nods, meeting Sherlock’s questioning, insecure glance steadily. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Sherlock swallows as well, casting down his eyes.

“John, I …,” he begins after a moment’s hesitation during which he is intently studying his hands as they create intricate patterns of fabric folds on the blanket. He’s avoiding to look at John.

John nods and swallows, and averts his face so that Sherlock can’t see his disappointment. It has been too much to hope for, he realises. Sherlock seems to like him, might actually consider him a friend. Most certainly he is grateful to him, too, for saving his life. But love ... that’s a wholly different matter. He sighs softly.

A large hand gently grasps his own and holds it shyly. “John, it’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just … relationships,” rumbles Sherlock. John’s head spins round to him. Sherlock’s face is burning, but his expression is grave. He draws a deep breath, winces slightly when apparently the movement aggravates the healing bullet wound in his chest. He swallows again, obviously searching for the right words to continue.

“I don’t … I mean, I’ve never … they’re not exactly my area. Even friendships … I’m not good at those, either. And as for the more … physical side of a relationship, should you wish or require that … I wouldn’t know what to do. I mean,” he draws an exasperated breath.

“God, why is this so difficult? It’s just that I’ve never been interested in sex and all that before, and haven’t therefore tried it. It always seemed a waste of time and effort. Even for the Work, I never needed first hand experience of these things even to solve cases that could be called ‘crimes of passion’. So I never bothered to get personally involved in all that pertains to sexual intercourse. So if that’s what you want, I doubt I’d be the right person for it. Apart from my own lack of interest, so far nobody has found me interesting or desirable enough to want to engage with me that way, and I can understand them. I’m not exactly ... sociable, and I don’t fit into the commonly accepted standards of beauty, either.”

“Whoa, whoa, Sherlock,” interrupts John, holding up the hand Sherlock hasn’t pinned down onto his stomach with his own. “Hold it there a moment. I wasn’t talking about sex. I’m talking about friendship, companionship, perhaps sharing a flat. Could be completely platonic. There’s no need for it to ever become sexual, or even physical, although personally I think I wouldn’t resent either. It’s just that I’ve never met a person like you, and now that I have, I don’t want to part ways with you again. And as for sociability, well, I never much liked being among people. Why do you think I spent a great deal of my time out in the wild? My track record of relationships isn’t very good – not for lack of trying, mind you. It just never worked out, and I know that in most cases I was to blame. I’ve always preferred the company of animals to that of humans. But with you ... I think it could work. I mean, we got along pretty well these past weeks, haven’t we? And fact is ... I’ve kinda gotten used to you. No, that’s not the right expression. Not used to, fond of you, exceedingly so. I’d miss you if we were to say goodbye again soon, I really would.”

Again he laughs nervously and runs a hand through his hair. All this talk, he finds it difficult. Gauging his emotional state and worse, putting it into words has never been his strong suit. Moreover, now that he thinks about what he just told Sherlock, he realises that his words could be completely misconstrued. He basically explained to Sherlock that he only got along with him because he was an animal, or at least this is how his words could be interpreted. Not exactly what another person one would like to enter into – or rather maintain – a relationship with could possibly want to hear. Sherlock seems uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed, too, his cheeks still flushed.

John swallows, fearing his he has majestically cocked up his chance of prolonging whatever connection he had with equine Sherlock. He is about to add an apology when Sherlock casts down his eyes. “I don’t want to be without you, either, John,” he admits softly, squeezing John’s hand. John squeezes back in surprise and relief. Apparently his words didn’t register wrongly with Sherlock.

Looking up, he suddenly smiles, giving John a shy glance through dark lashes. “As it is, I could do with a flatmate. You already know my place at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is giving me an extra deal with the rent, and is generally tolerant of my whims as surely you’ve noticed, but I wouldn’t mind if somebody were to share it. Or more precisely, if _you_ would share it with me. She likes you. I’m sure she’d be amenable of you moving in. She even suggested it to you. I’ve tried other flatmates before.” He makes a face. “Twice, to be precise. Didn’t work. It was a complete disaster each time, and not altogether my fault. I should warn you, though, that I’m not the easiest of people to live with.”

John raises his eyebrows and grins. “That I know. Can’t imagine that it could possibly be worse than when you were a horse.”

At this, Sherlock laughs again, and it’s a beautiful sound John would gladly hear more of, deep and rich and melodious. John is still not quite used to how deep his voice is. But he likes it very much.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” says Sherlock. “I play the violin when I’m thinking, frequently not even real music. Mrs. Hudson claims I torture the instrument, which isn’t true. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. You’ll have to accommodate body parts in the fridge, and noisome experiments in the kitchen. There might be the occasional nighttime dash across London, if you wish to help me with my work.”

He looks up at John through his lashes.

John cannot help laughing. “If this was meant to scare me off, you went about it the wrong way, mate. Remember, you’re talking to someone who rescued tigers in Siberia and rhinos in Africa, and only returned to Blighty because he was shot by a bloody poacher. I think I could deal with all this, and in any case I doubt I’d be bored, and that alone would be worth the experience.”

Sherlock joins in his laughter, cautiously, as if doubtful whether he’s allowed.

“Well, boredom is going to be the least of your worries, that much I can promise.”

“Brilliant. I could even try to apply for a position at the Zoo instead of the clinic. That’s just across the park from Baker Street. Of course I’d continue to help Clara and Harriet at Sunny Meadows, too.”

He turns his hand in Sherlock’s and gently strokes the long fingers with his own. A furtive glance at Sherlock’s face shows the other closing his eyes while his cheeks redden visibly, and the beat of his pulse in his long neck increases in speed. John smiles to himself. It seems that Sherlock is far more tactile, as a human as well as a horse, than he lets on or is even consciously aware of.

They sit in silence for a while with John caressing Sherlock’s hand. At one point he raises it to his lips and kisses it lightly, at which Sherlock sighs audibly and opens his eyes to gaze at John. “You saved my life, twice,” he says gravely. His pupils are wide and dark.

“Yes,” replies John. “And you mine. That tiger could have killed you when you leaped in front of me. He very nearly did. But he would definitely have killed me but for your interference. Still, it was stupid. You risked so much for me. When I saw you lying there, I didn’t know whether to turn you into a human or leave you in a horse’s body. I didn’t know which way your chances of survival would be greater. I thought you’d be more resilient in your equine shape because you were bleeding so much and I couldn’t stem the flow. I was afraid that if I turned you back into a human, you’d already bled out, or that the transformation would kill you. We couldn’t even be sure that there was a working antidote contained in the suitcase.”

He runs a shaking hand over his eyes and swallows a few times to get rid of the heavy lump in his throat.

Sherlock swallows, too, and a shiver runs through him at remembered pain. “I was sure I was going to die,” he admits quietly. “That’s why I urged you to turn me back. I felt I didn’t have any time left, and I wanted you to see me in my true form, and try to talk to you, thank you, and perhaps touch you, at least once until all was over.”

“Oh Sherlock,” whispers John, and after a moment’s hesitation, he stands and stoops to kiss Sherlock’s temple. The other leans into his touch and utters a soft sigh. John reaches up to stroke his dark curls, so reminiscent of if softer than Sherlock’s mane in his equine shape. “I believe I’ve seen you in your true form all along, and it’s beautiful, whatever shape your body takes.”

Sherlock withdraws a little and gazes at him intently, before his hand comes up to the side of John’s face which he touches very gingerly, almost reverently, as if he’s not yet accustomed again to having hands and fingers. Then he leans forward with the slightest groan of pain and brushes his lips against John’s. Startled, John draws back for an instant, before letting out a breath and leaning in again to return the kiss. He can tell that Sherlock has been truthful about his level of experience. John wonders whether he’s actually kissed or been kissed like this before. Likely not, he decides, which makes him both sad and angry. This beautiful but apparently deeply insecure and often lonely creature deserves all the love it can get, and John is determined to give it to him.

Cupping Sherlock’s face in both hands, he deepens the kiss, careful not to appear too forceful and frightening to the other. He needn’t have worried, he soon realises. Sherlock seems to enjoy this as much as he, and he is a quick learner, too, soon daring to engage his lips and even his tongue more efficiently as the minutes pass.

Ultimately, the clearing of a throat from the direction of the door causes them to break apart.

“I am pleased to see you have found ways to speed your recovery, little brother,” the clipped voice of Mycroft Holmes announces.

Sherlock lets out a long snort that almost sounds like his equine utterances. “Don’t you have a war to start somewhere, Mycroft?” he sighs, his forehead still touching John’s and his fingers caressing his nape.

“Most wars get started without my interference, and my task is rather to prevent more,” returns Mycroft. “My apologies for interrupting your ... tryst, but I have information that may interest you.”

John withdraws and sinks back into his chair when Mycroft saunters into the room, the tip of his umbrella clicking on the linoleum floor. Sherlock regards him haughtily, while at the same time reaching for John’s hand which he holds with more than a hint of possessiveness.

“Moriarty?” asks Sherlock, tensing ever so slightly as he studies his brother.

Mycroft inclines his head. “Yes, amongst other things. Others pertain to your recovery.”

“What do you have on Moriarty?” demands Sherlock. John rolls his eyes. It’s like Sherlock to put the work first, even before his own health. He’s going to need looking after, and not just until he’s on his legs again. Well, John is more than happy to volunteer for this task of lifetime carer, if required.

Mycroft sets the leather briefcase he’s been carrying on Sherlock’s bed and withdraws a manila envelope, which he hands to Sherlock. “In here, you will find extensive information about his organisation, how he wormed his way into Wickham’s research, and his plans for future expansion of his animal smuggling business which would have been disastrous for several species, had you two not stopped him when you did. You may read the contents of this envelope in my presence, but of course I cannot leave them here for you to peruse after my departure as the information is confidential.”

“Where is he now?” John wants to know. “Moriarty, and Moran, too? Sebastian the tiger, I mean. Oh, yes, and Moran. Has he been found?”

“Indeed he has. Moriarty had him imprisoned in on a country estate in Surrey where he also conducted further experiments on human/animal transformations using Wickham’s and other people’s research. It appears Moriarty has had a long-standing interest in the matter, being a rather knowledgeable scientist himself, although his specialty is mathematics. His plan, as the records form your phone show – oh, no need to look shocked, Dr. Watson. You must have suspected that the device was equipped with surveillance software. Your encounter with Mr. Moriarty was recorded word for word, which will come in handy in court – should we decide to conduct a trial in the first place, which again depends on Moriarty’s cooperation. Anyway, one of his plans for using the transformation serum was to smuggle protected species into the country by either disguising them as unprotected ones not required to remain long in quarantine, or indeed by turning them into humans and simply putting them on a plane with a handler. He had a long list of potential buyers, in Britain and elsewhere, some of them interested in living specimens for their private zoos or living quarters, others collectors or trophy hunters. So far, Mr. Moriarty has been a little slow in showing his cooperation and revealing more names, but his full disclosure of his clients and associates is only a matter of time.”

There is something eerily cold and a bit scary about the matter-of-fact voice of Mycroft Holmes as he talks about these things. John wonders what they’ve been doing with Moriarty. Even though personally, he is all for giving the nasty, cruel man a hard time, he nevertheless hopes that Mycroft and his people are not stooping as low as torture. As if reading his mind, Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“Have no fear, Dr. Watson, in our dealings with Mr. Moriarty we are very careful to remain within legal boundaries. His – minor – injuries have been treated and he is housed in relative luxury. He is, however, a wearisome prisoner to try and reason with, as he has not entirely grasped the full seriousness of his situation. He still believes that some of his ‘friends’ or the impressive range of lawyers in his pay will dole him out. No such luck, of course, but as long as he thinks he can bargain with us, the better for us. He has become rather talkative lately, likely because of the crushing boredom he is suffering in his confinement. That does sound familiar, doesn’t it, Sherlock? Solitary confinement … it’s like locking you up with your worst enemy.”

Sherlock glares at his brother and snorts derisively. John remembers the anxious, violent horse he encountered when he first visited Sunny Meadows and knows that Mycroft is right. Had Sherlock remained in that stall without anything to occupy him, he’d likely gone mad, or killed himself and injured others in a desperate attempt to escape. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand which is still holding his, and Sherlock’s tense expression softens. The corners of his mouth twitch in a smile that to John conveys the deep gratitude he feels for the stroke of luck which led the one vet to his stable who would take a closer look, and listen, and stay, and care.

“What will happen to Moriarty?” asks John. “I suspect you don’t want him to walk free again. But can you really hold him indeterminably without a proper trial? Or are you going to make a deal with him, information for his freedom or something?”

Mycroft studies him. “It would not be difficult to contrive reasons to keep Mr. Moriarty locked away. In order to protect the two of you and a number of other people on his blacklist, he must of course not be allowed to roam free again. Putting him in witness protection is out of the question, too, even if he provided us with enough valid information about his associates to warrant such a move. He is simply too shrewd and dangerous, and would very likely manage to disappear, vanish off our radar, which of course we cannot allow to happen. There are, however, several possibilities to keep him detained without breaking any major laws. We are currently looking into these, which means I cannot delve deeper into them as of right now. But you will be informed of the decision in due time. As for the others involved directly, as I said, Moran has been found. Due to having been drugged for a considerable amount of time in order to keep him sedated, he is currently undergoing rehabilitation and debriefing in a secure facility. It appears that in the beginning, he was working together with Moriarty and helping to establish contact with animal smugglers and poachers in Asia, mainly India, Pakistan and the Himalayas. But eventually they had a falling out, and Moriarty decided that Moran’s genes were more worth than his contacts and connections. So he kept him more or less ‘on ice’ as a source of fresh DNA for the tiger, whose transformation marks a new stage in the research into the transformative agent and its potential. As you know, the creature you encountered and fought with was originally a tiger, but he was not simply transformed into a human while keeping his feline conscious.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully at this. “Of course. Had the tiger retained its original brain functions like I retained mine while being horse-shaped, its use for Moriarty would have been diminished. The creature we encountered possessed the raw strength and agility of a tiger, and some of its ferocity when hungry, angry or feeling threatened, but it had a human-like awareness of its surroundings and of itself and was able, to some extent, to understand human speech and commands, enabling Moriarty to control it much better than he would have a real tiger, albeit human-shaped.”

“Precisely,” says Mycroft. “Our scientists are currently looking into the matter. The potential of this serum is huge, as you can imagine, particularly for the field of medicine. It will, however, be years until a wider use can even been taken into consideration. Still, because of case studies like Wickham’s, Potter’s, Moran’s, Jeff Hope’s who has now been apprehended as well, no longer rodent-shaped, and of course yours, Sherlock, government funding has been secured for a decade. Both Miss Wickham’s and your research have been indispensable, although for the future I would strongly discourage another field trial involving yourself as a test subject, little brother. This was worse, far worse, than the acid incident when you were six, or the destruction of the chemistry lab at Harrow at thirteen, not to mention your ill-advised attempts at self-medication during your university days and after. Without the help of your staunch doctor here, things may have ended in disaster. Which reminds me, Mummy and Daddy send their love, and will visit you on Sunday, expecting you to be civil.”

Sherlock makes a face at that, crunching the bridge of his nose which John finds rather adorable. “Tell them I’m still too sick to receive them.”

Mycroft only shakes his head. “Nonsense, Sherlock. A short while ago, you were well enough to thoroughly kiss Doctor Watson here – I believe ‘snogging’ would be a more appropriate description. If you can engage in activities like this, you are certainly well enough to receive your parents and entertain them for an hour or two. They are both very eager to meet your ‘young man’, meaning Doctor Watson should preferably be present as well.”

Sherlock heaves a long sigh, winces slightly, then settles with a glum expression. John laughs softly. “‘Young man’,” he muses. “It’s been a while since anybody’s called me that. Actually, I’m curious to meet your parents. Did they know about your … altered circumstances?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “Obviously Mycroft has told them that I have a friend now.”

John laughs louder, shaking his head. “I meant the fact that you spent most of the past month as a horse, you daftie.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes but only barely manages to hide a grin. “I gave them a redacted account of the situation,” he says. Nodding towards the envelope resting on Sherlock’s lap, he adds, “Have a look at it now. I will pay the science department downstairs a visit and collect the file on my return. According to Dr. Demirçi, she wants to keep you in hospital for the next week. I will arrange for rehabilitation afterwards.”

“Not necessary,” interjects Sherlock quickly. “I want to return to Baker Street, not spend more time cooped up in some boring rehab facility.”

“Sherlock, you have barely survived a life-threatening bullet wound and deep lacerations from a tiger attack. You are going to need medical screening and assistance for at least another month, and careful rehabilitation throughout and afterwards.”

“Agreed. But I can do that at home. Moreover, I will have expert medical care in my own flat.”

Mycroft’s eyes flick from his determined face to John’s. “He is a veterinarian, Sherlock,” he protests.

“He is my doctor,” returns Sherlock stubbornly, grasping John’s hand tightly. “He has looked after me before, and you trusted him with my care. He can do so now, too. Moreover, when we need assistance from a specialist, we will make sure to get it. Make yourself useful for a change and arrange for John’s move to Baker Street as soon as possible. I can assure you that his continued presence will improve my recovery exponentially, far more than my imprisonment in some dreary rehab facility would.”

Mycroft glances at the two men, then shakes his head. His expression, however, is almost fond despite his disapproving frown – which, John is certain, is mostly for show. As a man who cares and worries about his little brother the way Mycroft does – although he would never admit it – he must be extremely relieved that finally, his troublesome charge has found someone else to look after him, someone to share Mycroft’s burden.

“You really are in deep, aren’t you?” Mycroft mutters as he studies his brother, and John can see the softening in his eyes. Drawing a breath, the elder Holmes snaps back into the normal imperious persona and snatches up his umbrella.

“Very well, little brother. I’ll see what I can do. I hope you are aware of what you are getting yourself into with him, John,” he adds, giving John a beady look.

John glances at Sherlock and smiles warmly, his thumb caressing the back of his hand. “Yeah, I think I do. And I look forward to it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration for this chapter:  
> 


	13. Epilogue: London Zoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Thanks so much to everybody who has been following this story and its progress, who left comments or kudos or liked and reblogged the illustrations. I honestly didn’t expect it to turn into a 100+k fanfic that would take me almost a year to write, and I’m absolutely blown away by the reception it’s had. So thank you once again.
> 
> A particular thank you goes to those who were inspired to create translations, art, photos or a cover for this story: there is fanart by [sheeponmars](http://sheeponmars.tumblr.com/post/133352856255/inktober-31-inspired-by-the-wonderful-fanfic-the) and [sparklingarse](http://sparklingarse.tumblr.com/post/136758016036/i-tried-to-do-a-fan-drawing-for-khorazirs), and [photos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6167782/chapters/14131984) and a [cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6168580/chapters/14133847) by hamstermoon.
> 
> My next writing project is to finish my other wip, the WWII/codebreaker AU [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418). I’ll also start plotting the sequel to [_Over Earth and Under Earth_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/964564/chapters/1891549) and work on my [Sherlock/London graphic novel](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/140411706528/the-first-nine-linearts-from-my-latest-sherlock). Also, who knows when and in what form the plot bunnies will bite next ...

London Zoo is bound to be busy this time of the year, and particularly on a sunny Sunday afternoon like today. After finishing a case the previous night, Sherlock and John fell asleep on the sofa after late takeaway. John’s shoulder is reminding him painfully of their sleeping arrangements now. Even Sherlock seems to have a crick in his long neck because he keeps rolling his shoulders and making grumpy noises as they walk through Regent’s Park to reach their destination. John is still somewhat surprised that Sherlock has agreed to accompany him to the Zoo at all, and at such a people-heavy day, too, but he suspects that he is as curious as John about the latest additions to the reptile house and the tiger pavilion.

They visit the latter first. Crowds of people are milling about and taking photographs of the large cats that lie on their rocks dozing in the sun. A group of rather obnoxious tourists is fiddling around with mobile phones and tablets on selfie sticks, while a less obnoxious while still somewhat annoying company of art students blocks the best views with their stools and drawing pads. Sherlock is tall enough to see over their heads and sketchbooks and the waving iPads, but John has to stand on tip-toe to catch a glimpse of the tigers.

“There he is,” murmurs Sherlock, leaning close and sending a shiver down John’s spine. They haven’t advanced beyond kissing, gentle touching and the occasional cuddle on the couch yet, as well as – and John loves this activity in particular – Sherlock allowing him to brush his hair on those mornings when neither is working. There is a constant promise of more to come humming between them, however. John is honouring the promise he’s made to Sherlock to heed his boundaries and proceed slowly in their blossoming relationship, waiting for Sherlock to state his desires and set the pace. And he’s happy, deliriously so, despite the fact that living with Sherlock and sharing a flat with him can be nerve-wracking and difficult at time, and exhilarating and stimulating at others. It’s never boring, that’s for sure, just as Sherlock promised. John is certain he’s made the right decision in moving in with him, despite wanting to strangle him occasionally.

John forces himself to concentrate on the large cat Sherlock is indicating with a nod of his head. He recognises the distinctive pattern of stripes on the feline’s coat and draws in a whistling breath. Sebastian reclines on one of the lower rocks. Whatever injuries he received from Sherlock’s hooves and teeth have long healed, although he has retained a fading scar over one eye. Sebastian looks at them briefly, but there is no recognition in his yellow eyes. And why should there be? He’s a tiger, and he’s always been one, even when he was man-shaped and his DNA mixed with that of ex-colonel Moran.

Watching him grooming his paws, John decides that he looks much happier in his natural shape. Despite all the grief Sebastian has caused them, John is glad he didn’t kill him when he had the chance. After all, he’s spent over a year trying to protect tigers in the wild. Sebastian will never roam freely again, but his genes are a valuable resource for the conservation of the species. John knows it’s hopelessly sentimental, but he hopes Seb is going to meet a nice tiger lady at some point and be able to live as happily as possible in captivity.

He steps closer to Sherlock, and snaking a hand round his middle, squeezes him affectionately for a brief moment. Sherlock stiffens in surprise like he often does when John touches him, as if he can’t quite believe that John would actually want to be close to him, but then he relaxes into John’s touch and leans against his smaller form with a content sigh. He drops a kiss on John’s hair and places his arm round the doctor’s shoulders to draw him close. “Come on, let’s go to the reptile house. It should be less crowded in there.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

Thankfully, most of the visitors of the reptile house seem to have come for the large serpents, particularly the boa constrictor that they believe was featured in the first  _ Harry Potter _ film. John and Sherlock quickly walk past the frogs and other amphibians to reach their particular destination. It’s one of the smaller terrariums. There are some plants, and rocks and sand and a small pool. John grins when he spots a mouse skull one of the decorators has placed in there, perhaps to make the habitat more appealing to its inhabitant, who, interestingly, is nowhere to be seen.

John’s eyes scan the nooks and crannies in the rock formation, then he shrugs and reads the sign instead. ‘ _ Skull-Speckled Gecko _ ’ _ ,  _ it says. ‘ _ Eublepharis moriartii, a rare species recently discovered in Ireland.’  _ The sign goes on describing the gecko’s natural habitat and food preferences, and it also features a photograph of the species showing a dark blue-skinned lizard with large, protruding, heavily lidded eyes, and white spots scattered all over its body reminiscent of the pattern of the skull tie Moriarty used to wear.

Just when John is about to move on, somewhat disappointed, he feels Sherlock’s large hand on his shoulder. “Look over there,” he tells him quietly. As John steps closer to the glass front of the terrarium, thus blocking out his own reflection, he sees him. Lying behind a rock, he spots the lizard.

Sherlock leans in as well. “Hello, Jim,” he says quietly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

The gecko blinks and slowly turns his head towards them. The look he gives them could either be described as baleful, or as utterly, desperately bored. John decides that it’s both.

“I bet he’s already hatching plans of how to escape, or how to bring the other occupants of the reptile house under his sway,” mutters John to Sherlock, who chuckles.

“Well, good luck with that. That’s safety glass, and I doubt the axolotls and treefrogs over there are much interested in world domination.”

Jim’s dark eyes narrow at this. John is sure he can hear them and understand what they’re saying. He’s also convinced that Moriarty will do everything in his (admittedly momentarily limited) power to escape his current confinement and find a way to return to his original shape. And maybe to avenge his misfortune on those he undoubtedly blames for his recent fall from grace. Sherlock seems to be thinking along the same lines when he says, “According to Mycroft, they’re keeping him under special surveillance. It was to be either the Zoo or Baskerville. He was given the choice, and selected the former. No prison would be safe with him in human shape. I believe it’s part of his sentence having to stay an animal for a while, to realise the error of his ways.”

“Well, it’s what anybody would have picked, I guess,” muses John. “He’s a creepy bloke, as a human much more than as a lizard – I mean, he almost looks cute like this –, and definitely a bit evil, but I wouldn’t wish the Baskerville labs on any creature.”

“No, neither would I,” agrees Sherlock gravely. Turning to the gecko again, he says, “Well, Jim, it was great to see you. Be good now and eat your crickets, and we’ll come round occasionally to brighten your day.”

Jim the gecko gives him a deadly glare in return, and then uses his long, blue tongue to clean his face with one broad swipe.

John laughs at this, at which Sherlock gives him a frown. “Cute? Really, John?”

“Well, I think he is. With his large eyes and everything. But let’s go see something really cute. I’m sure the otters are out. It must be feeding time.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirk up at this. “Otters?”

John pokes his side playfully with an elbow, noticing with delight when Sherlock squirms. His flanks are very sensitive, even now that his injuries have healed. John isn’t sure if they’ve always been that ticklish, or if this is something else Sherlock has retained from his stint as a horse, together with his strange high-action gait, his liking for having his hair groomed by John and his absolute love for oatmeal biscuits. However his sensitivity came about, John likes how he can render Sherlock breathless with a single, gentle run of his fingers along his side. He is definitely looking forward to exploring this trait further in times to come.

“Yes, otters. You know, looking at you, I wonder how you ever ended up getting turned into a horse. You should have been an otter. You rather look like one with your ridiculous chin.”

Sherlock draws himself up at this and sticks out the ridiculed part of his anatomy. “My chin isn’t ridiculous. And you’re one to talk. I wonder what kind of animal you’d turn into.”

John chuckles as they step out of the reptile house into the bright afternoon sunlight. “My sister always claimed I resembled a hedgehog when we were kids. Small and bristly, that kind of thing. And Jim said so, too, remember?”

Sherlock regards him for a moment, one eyebrow raised, his expression fond. “I think I can see their point,” he quips, and offering his arm to John, “Come on, let’s go see those otters of yours,” he says.

John takes his arm, leaning into his side playfully. “Lead the way, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles. “With pleasure, Dr. Watson,” he replies.

 

**-The End-**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final illustration:  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with my stories, this one will also have illustrations. They and information about the story's progress can be found at my [tumblr](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/horse_and_his_doctor).
> 
>  
> 
> A particular thank you goes to those who were inspired to create translations, art, photos or a cover for this story: there is fanart by [sheeponmars](http://sheeponmars.tumblr.com/post/133352856255/inktober-31-inspired-by-the-wonderful-fanfic-the) and [sparklingarse](http://sparklingarse.tumblr.com/post/136758016036/i-tried-to-do-a-fan-drawing-for-khorazirs), and [photos](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6167782/chapters/14131984) and a [cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6168580/chapters/14133847) by hamstermoon.
> 
> Another great piece of fanart was created by [Artemis_Linard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Linard/profile): "[Toasty Hooves](https://darkwolfmightyena.deviantart.com/art/Toasty-hooves-702610440)"
> 
> There is now a Russian translation by [PulpFiction](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction): [_Конь и его доктор_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11411739/chapters/25563129). The translator also added some links that show the various animal breeds mentioned in the story, which may be helpful for those who are not familiar with the creatures. Thanks a lot for that.


End file.
